


Under Stage Lights

by SaltyCalm



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Chronic Illness, Fluff, Gay Bucky Barnes, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, References to Illness, Sarah Rogers lives, Sleeping Beauty Ballet, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-01-04 22:56:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21205445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltyCalm/pseuds/SaltyCalm
Summary: The dancer must have been in Steve’s blind spot in the corner of the room where the window stopped, along one the wall he couldn’t see. But here he was, running into the center opposite Natasha. He was dark haired and lithe, bangs flying wildly as he leaped. He spun and landed, other leg sweeping out behind him, arms outstretched. He looked absolutely beautiful, sweat dripping down his whole body, soaking his white t-shirt which gave way to black tights and matching ballet shoes.He had to be the most beautiful person Steve had ever seen in his life.AKA the gay sleeping beauty ballet au that no one asked for





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! I am so excited to introduce this fic to you!
> 
> Chapters are short, about 2-3k each, and will be posting twice a week on Tuesdays and Fridays.
> 
> The biggest thanks to [ Cars ](https://twitter.com/Marvelbixh) for beta-ing and insisting that the boys fuck since chapter one despite the fact this is a slow burn. 
> 
> Additional special thanks to [ _cydonic](https://twitter.com/_cydonic), [ Snuzz](https://twitter.com/spacerenegades), [ Dot](https://twitter.com/buckossteve), [ Charlie](https://twitter.com/mlmrogers), and everyone in the all hail romanian god gc for being SO supportive and commenting on snips and messaging me sweet things/threats to keep writing :)
> 
> Follow me on [ twitter ](https://twitter.com/bisexualcapps) for updates!

Steve was at home, working on a design draft for work when he got a text from Natasha. **_My bike is in the shop. Can you pick me up from rehearsal?_**

Steve set his stylus down and chewed his lip, looking down at the screen. “Rehearsal” must mean that nonprofit dance company Nat started dancing with last year. She mentioned it once, a passing comment during a game of darts. Steve suddenly felt bad that he didn’t know what was going on in Natasha's life, but then again, if Nat wanted him to know, he would know.

He opened the keypad. **_Sure. What time? Send me the address._**

He set his phone down and reached for his stylus. The deadline for the draft was tomorrow, and while an advertisement for a new clothing shop that seemed to sell only overpriced denim may not seem like the end of the world, Steve’s was the primary income earner, and eating and paying the mortgage was generally important.

After a minute his phone buzzed again, and Steve glanced down to see a text from Natasha with the address lighting up the screen. A community center a half hour's drive away. **_We're done at 7:30_** the message finished. Steve checked the time - he'd need to leave in about an hour. He made himself finish adding texture to the denim-esque icon in the center of the design before tapping out. **_I’ll be there_**.

He became so engrossed in his work that the hour was almost up when he stood up to stretch. A familiar but unwelcome rush swept up his body and took over his vision when he stood. A swarming gray like TV static everywhere he looked, Steve grimaced and stood still, waiting for his heart rate to adjust. His own fault for getting up too fast. He’d been having POTS symptoms since he was in his teens, but some things never get easier.

He padded across the living room to a short hallway and tapped gently on the closed door. “Ma?” he said quietly, poking his head around the door. Sarah Rogers was awake, propped up by pillows, doing something idly on a tablet. She glanced over as he came into the room.

“I'm picking up Nat from dance rehearsal across town. Need anything while I'm out?” Steve put his large hand over hers, feeling her veins sticking out through worn skin.

Sarah gave him a wan, tired smile and shook her head. Despite the weariness that tugged at it, her eyes still sparkled with warmth. “Is it leftovers for dinner tonight?”

Steve nodded. “Unless you’d like something particular, but we still have soup. I told Sam not to eat all of it.”

Sarah laughed, and then sighed from the exertion. “Okay, my angel,” she murmured.

Steve placed a gentle kiss on her forehead before leaving. Though it was routine by now, part of him still wasn’t used to seeing his strong, brilliant mother – a longtime nurse and his only parent – frequently bedridden by the disorder that crept along her muscles and bones. She had been talking about going back to taking some shifts just before this most recent flare up put her in bed for the last two weeks.

Rush hour was long over by the time Steve hit the road, and it was dark by the time he parked. Bright lights illuminated the metal letting on the stone exterior that read “Francis Community Center.” Steve felt more than heard the upbeat electronic music pulsing from the other side of the wall.

He whistled as he pushed the door open. The outside didn’t look like much, but he took in the spacious interior with wide eyes. This looked nothing like the worn down one-room community center near home where he used to take weekly modern dance classes. There were three dance studios along the hallway to his left, and benches along the adjacent wall. A sign down the hall indicated an art studio upstairs. To his right was a hallway, the sign above listing “OFFICES, RESTROOMS, GYM/POOL” with accompanying arrows. A corkboard next to his shoulder was bursting with flyers, posters, upcoming programs, and events. He even spotted a few personal artist business cards. Maybe he could tack up his graphic design business card. They could do with some side income.

“Rogers!”

Steve started at the voice and spun around to see Natasha walking up to him. She had a black leotard and leg warmers on, and her hair was in a tight bun, a few loose strands floating around her face. Despite the sweat glistening along her skin, she wasn’t even breathing hard. Behind her, a couple other women in similar attire slipped out the studio door, picking up their water bottles from a line of them next to the door. “We’re actually going another half hour. I’m sorry you have to wait.”

Oh. Steve cringed internally. Sitting and waiting, as easy as it sounded, was exhausting for a number of reasons. Longer than five minutes upright in a chair and his back started twinging in pain. More often than not, his blood pooled into his feet and put him at risk for blacking out when he stood up. Especially when there wasn’t something else claiming his attention and distracting him from the discomfort, it was a lot of effort when every cell in his body screamed at him and begged to do anything else.

“No problem Nat,” Steve offered a small smile. No need to make her feel bad about something outside of her control. He should have brought his sketchbook.

“Thanks.” She gave him a grateful upturn of her mouth before jogging back into the studio. The music had switched to some sort of classical piano. A march or a waltz, something. Music wasn’t Steve’s expertise.

Well, he was here already, so he may as well watch their rehearsal. Steve eased onto the thinly cushioned bench, wincing already as his back started to protest almost instantly. He was going to need to stand up and stretch a couple times before Natasha was done.

Sighing, Steve looked up and observed the rehearsal for the first time since he came in. The windows to the studio were beginning to fog at the edges with sweat. There were about a dozen or so women in the studio, in a variety of solid colored leotards, some with leg warmers or socks, some in tights and some with bare legs. A woman who looked to be in her late thirties, with short blond hair swept up and wearing a high-necked black tank top was clearly the instructor, standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror and calling out the occasional direction. The dancers were going in pairs, starting in opposite corners and doing grand jetés en tournant across the floor – Steve recognized the step from a contemporary jazz class he tried once. Too hard on his body, but it was a fun experience, minus needing to nap most of the following day to recover from the fatigue. It wasn’t until the modern dance class for beginning adults he took later that the instructor taught him how to modify for his conditions. Dance became more enjoyable after that. It inspired him to modify all of his workouts, too.

Settling into the bench a little more, Steve’s eyes swept up and down and the dancers whirled past the window, noting the elongated fingers, shoulder blades, leg muscles rippling. His fingers itched for his pens and sketchpad.

And then _he_ stepped into view.

He must have been in Steve’s blind spot in the corner of the room where the window stopped, along one the wall he couldn’t see. But here he was, running into the center opposite Natasha. He was dark haired and lithe, bangs flying wildly as he leaped. He spun and landed, other leg sweeping out behind him, arms outstretched. He looked absolutely beautiful, sweat dripping down his whole body, soaking his white t-shirt which gave way to black tights and matching ballet shoes. He and Natasha crossed, their curved arms almost touching before gracefully running towards opposite corners.

_Wow._ Steve swallowed. His mouth was suddenly very dry. He had to be the most beautiful person Steve had ever seen in his life. He blinked, and realized his mouth was hanging open. He shut it, coughed and glanced around even though the rest of the hallway was empty.

Now on the opposite side of the room, Steve watched as the dark-haired dancer pushed his sweaty bangs back and stretched absentmindedly as he watched the others. His jaw was strong, graced with the barest hint of a shadow. His eyes were an ambiguous blue-green, and his dark brows were drawn together, thinking, as the instructor called out a direction. He did some tiny hops, shuffling forward as the line of girls moved forward, his turn coming up again.

Steve watched him cross the floor two more times, utterly enthralled. When Dark Hair leapt and turned, his eyebrows were raised slightly, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his parted lips. His damp bangs were flung into his eyes every time his head whipped around at the end of the jump, but they couldn’t hide the expression of bliss and longing in his eyes and he looked past his fingertips. As if this wasn’t a rehearsal under fluorescent lights, but a performance on a grand stage to an audience held spellbound.

Abruptly, the music stopped and changed again. “Line up everyone. Let’s finish with lifts,” Steve heard the blonde instructor say. Some of the dancers let out a cheer, and Dark Hair laughed and smiled good naturedly, glancing at the ground and then back up-

Right at Steve. Sharp, clear eyes met his own wide and awestruck ones. A flush swept over Steve’s face and he jerked his gaze away, far too sudden to achieve its purpose. He studied the mottled grey of the ceiling for what felt like twenty years before daring to look back. He could feel the laughs and pitying looks already.

But despite what the anxiety and embarrassment said, no one was looking at him. In fact, Dark Hair was standing in the center, entirely focused on lifting each of the dancers as they ran up and did a grand jeté. It was fluid, the motion as he wrapped his hands around their ribcage and lifted them, nearly above his head, before lowering them with equal control and grace. Steve couldn’t stop staring at the back muscles straining under the sweat-soaked shirt that clung to his skin. Dark Hair was facing away from him, and Steve flushed again as his eyes drifted down briefly to the curve of black tights.

He had a sudden urge to have that man’s hands around his waist. Steve didn’t know half the steps they were doing, but what if he did? Or what if Steve’s hands were on the other man’s waist, lifting his slender figure into the air? Steve felt his breath catch in his throat. Whatever pain his back was in from sitting here for thirty minutes was worth it. He’s pretty sure he’s never going to forget this absolutely beautiful stranger.

All of a sudden, the door opened and a rush of bodies, dampness, and the smell of sweat, cotton, and spandex streamed out into the hallway. The dancers picked up their water bottles, taking sips in between pants as they headed to the dressing rooms. Steve scrambled to his feet, cursing mentally as his face went cold. He staggered, put his hands on his knees, and took deep breaths until he felt his heart rate adjust.

Dark Hair was leaving the studio, an easy smile on his face despite looking thoroughly spent. Steve saw him approach the door and started to panic, his heart rate picking back up. There was no way he could just stand there casually while the most stunning person he’d ever seen walked by, dripping sweat and wearing nothing but a thin damp t-shirt and tights -

“Hey.” It was Natasha walking towards him, bag slung over her shoulder and zipping up a hoodie.

Steve all but grabbed her wrist and dragged her out the door. “Hey, we gotta go.” He walked so fast across the parking lot it was practically a jog.

“What’s the rush, Rogers?” Natasha crinkled her brow at him, but got into the car after Steve unlocked the door, fumbling with his keys, breath erratic. “Do you need your inhaler?”

Steve sunk into his seat, starting the engine and shifting into gear like a getaway driver. “I’m good Nat.”

“You’re being weird.” She took a sip of water, making a choked off sound as Steve pulled a sharp turn into the street. “Jerk, you made me spill. What’s wrong with you?”

“I…ah.” Flashes of dark bangs plastered to a damp forehead and lean thigh muscles ended that sentence before Steve could even start it. He could feel the cold stare of Natasha’s eyes on him, and he stubbornly kept his eyes on the road. “Just didn’t want to get in the way of everyone packing up.”

Nat took a loud sip of her water, which translated out to: _You’re full of shit but I’m going to drop it for now._

When they pulled up in front of Natasha’s apartment complex, Steve cleared his throat. “How many days a week do you rehearse?” He kept his eyes on the dashboard.

“Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays.”

Today was Monday. Five different sirens started screaming in Steve’s head, but he just nodded to Natasha and said goodnight.

• • • ♕ • • •

Sam was lying on the couch, one of his enormous psych textbooks propped up in both hands and his reading glasses perched on his nose when Steve walked in. He mumbled something that sounded like a cross between “Hey” and “Hmph,” which Steve returned in kind without even thinking about it. Sam had been renting out a room with the Rogers’ for long enough they were long past formal greetings. Besides, he and Sam had known each other since high school. They even dated briefly while they were in college – if you could call one-and-a-half stilted dates and two self-conscious kisses that were equal parts too wet and too dry “dating” – before deciding they were best as friends.

“How was your day?” Steve asked, making a beeline for the fridge. If he was lucky, there was still some soup left.

“Internship. Good. Long.” Sam replied around the highlighter pen held between his teeth, because they were long past complete sentences too.

“Mom eat?” Looks like she did. The soup container was nowhere to be found. That meant Sam ate when he came home too, which was good.

“Yep. Came out and sat on the couch for an hour too.” Steve raised his eyebrows at that and glanced over his shoulder at Sam, who mirrored his expression. Maybe she was on the upswing out of the flare up.

“Did you get enough to eat?” Steve folded deli meat into a slice of bread and inhaled it in two bites.

Sam looked at him over his reading glasses, giving him a little squint. “What am I gonna say to that?”

Steve scoffed and turned around, reaching for another piece of bread.

“Worry about yourself, Rogers.” Sam droned on from behind him.

“I’m not the one in grad school, Sam.” God, they were like an old married couple, the amount of times this conversation had happened in the last year and a half.

“Fuck off,” came the ritual reply. Steve smiled.

It wasn’t until Steve was on the verge of sleep that his thoughts wandered back to the rehearsal, replaying every twist and curve of Dark Hair’s movements across the studio floor. Even with his lithe form, Steve had stared most at his face, the damp hair and bright eyes and jawline his fingertips ached to touch. His face heated up as he thought about the split second they made eye contact. Fuck. The most beautiful person Steve had ever seen, and he was never going to cross paths with him again.

Unless. Steve felt his stomach twist. Natasha had said they met Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays.

Oh, what the hell.

On a surge of adrenaline, he reached for his phone. His eyes squinted almost shut when the backlight assaulted his eyes. He tapped out a message to Natasha before putting his phone on silent and rolling back over:

** _need a ride again tomorrow? :)_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a gif of a grand jeté en tournant:
> 
> [](https://gifyu.com/image/k5D0)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Follow me on [ twitter ](https://twitter.com/bisexualcapps) for updates!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you haven't already feel free to follow on [ twitter ](https://twitter.com/bisexualcapps) for updates :)

Steve brought his sketchbook this time.

Granted, it’s his work sketchbook – the one that said “Shield Graphics” in white text on the front that he used to draft designs when he’s not in the office. His own art was reserved for the mixed media sketchbook his mother gifted him last Christmas. Steve told himself he would do work while he waited for rehearsal to finish. The change of scenery might help him be more productive.

He had his sketchbook open on his lap, the page covered in variations of a logo he was drafting for work. His pen scritched across the page and angular, dramatic text emerged under his fingers.

Classical music started playing from inside the studio, and Steve looked up to see a handful of the dancers in perfect rows, doing elegant curtseys and back-and-forth steps. The other dancers stood in clumps against the walls, stretching or sitting or practicing their own steps. Steve’s eyes skimmed over all of them, searching out Dark Hair’s curls in a sea of tight buns.

There he was. He was standing towards the back, wearing a white t-shirt and black tights again, one long leg lifted up on the barre. Steve let his eyes drift down and then back up. At this angle, he really could see every curve of muscle along Dark Hair’s legs.

_Not to mention his ass_, Steve thought next, hating himself a little bit for being a creep.

The song ended and the girls froze in their pose, arms stretched into the air. Another song started and the instructor said something that sounded like “You ready, prince?” Steve’s good ear was angled away from the door, so he couldn’t tell for sure. What he could tell was that the girls dropped their poses and moved to the sides of the room, and Dark Hair took their place, striding with poise and charm into the center of the room. The music swelled, and Dark Hair brought one arm up in a curve over his head, looked to the side with the hint of a grin, and then turned and leaped, continuing his steps as the rest of the room looked on.

Oh, this was a solo. Steve’s eyebrows softly lifted of their own accord, his pen and sketchbook long forgotten in his lap. It occurred to him, belatedly, that they must be rehearsing for a show, and Dark Hair must be one of the main dancers. He should go check for a poster announcement somewhere later. What amount of money he wouldn’t pay to watch him in a performance –

Steve’s brain shorted out entirely as the man ran back into center and proceeded to do a perfect triple pirouette. Then another, and another, and another.

The music rose, frenzied and ecstatic, and on the final burst he landed the last pirouette with a flourish. Steve didn’t realize he was holding his breath until it came out in a rush. He watched Dark Hair hold his final pose, chest open and head lifted, even though Steve could see his shoulders heaving as he gulped in breath.

The girls all clapped and he broke his pose, glancing at them almost shyly. His nose crinkled in an embarrassed smile when someone shouted “Yeah!” and then he moved towards the side wall, still recovering his breath.

The blonde instructor said something to him that made him turn. He nodded after a moment, that shy, easy smile overtaking his face again.

_I want to see him smile like that all the time._

The whole body of dancers moved into the center this time as a darker, more ominous song began, and Steve shook himself from his trance. He was immediately aware that his back was screaming from the hard, rigid bench.

He got up and soft-jogged to the water fountain, stretching his arms and bending side to side as he walked back to his sketchbook. He wrinkled his nose at the logo scribbled all over the paper, then flipped the page. His eyes flicked up, taking in Dark Hair’s profile and studying the line of his shoulders. Steve tapped the end of his pen against his lips, nibbling it lightly before carefully outlining the dancer’s tousled hair and jawline.

Steve lost track of the minutes and was reverently dedicating the curve in the small of the man’s back to paper when he saw a blur of moment in his peripherals. The studio door swung open, the girls spilling out into the hall and towards the dressing rooms. Steve slammed his sketchbook shut, a flush creeping up his neck. He unfolded his legs and stood, wincing quietly at the stiffness of the motion.

“Rogers, come here.” Natasha emerged from the dressing room, hoodie partway zipped and water bottle in hand. Two other women joined her, one with sparkling eyes and one with a mouth set in a line that reminded Steve of Natasha.

“Steve, meet my friends. This is Wanda,” the one with kind, open eyes smiled at him, “and Mora.” The other woman inclined her head with a quick, “Nice to meet you.”

“A pleasure to meet you both.” Steve bounced on the balls of his feet, not sure of what else to say. He thought one day he would grow out of his awkwardness around women, but it seemed that ship had sailed.

“Who’s this, Natasha?” the blonde instructor stepped out of the studio and joined them in the hallway, one eyebrow arched in curiosity.

“Steve is a friend,” she turned to him, “This is Carol Danvers-Rambeau. She started Marvel Dance…four years ago?”

“Something like that,” Carol said with a smile, reaching out to shake Steve’s hand. “I thought there should be more opportunities for dancers who aged out of dance schools to keep it in their lives when it wasn’t their career choice. The community center got us started with some grants, and here we are now.”

Steve caught the passion in her smile, expression matched. “That’s fantastic. How many shows do you do in a year?”

“Three. Winter, spring, and summer. Speaking of,” Carol waved a finger in his direction. “Mark your calendar. We have a show coming up in two months. Sleeping Beauty. Well, our version of Sleeping Beauty. We thought about changing it to “Sleeping Prince,” but it’s just not as catchy. Ours has two princes,” Carol grinned. “That, and we’re deviating from the classical style a little bit in the second half, after the time passes when the castle falls under the spell.”

“Oh wow. That’s amazing. I can't wait to see it,” Steve said without missing a beat, even though he had departed from the mortal world at _Sleeping Beauty but it's gay princes._

“Speaking of our princes,” Natasha called out with a grin pointed at the studio door, where Dark Hair was emerging. He ruffled and then swept his bangs back in one motion before wrapping one arm over Natasha’s shoulders in what had to be a terribly sweaty hug. “This is my friend that picked me up yesterday.” Natasha tipped her chin to Steve.

Dark Hair looked at him, mouth upturned, and Steve tried to school his features down from “wild deer spotted by hunter” to “bisexual with a shred of social grace.”

“Steve, let me introduce you to Jamie.”

“Bucky,” said Dark Hair said at the same time, and stuck one arm out toward him.

Jamie Bucky? Steve flung his hand out and shook, losing oxygen the longer those piercing eyes were locked onto his. “Nice to meet you Budjey.”

_Budjey???_

“Shit, ah, Bucky. Jamie?” Steve withdrew his hand, looking helplessly to Natasha.

“Oh sorry. I go by both. Most of the girls know me as Jamie, but feel free to call me Bucky,” he was still smiling at Steve, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Steve swallowed.

“I'm Steve. Natasha’s friend,” he said weakly. His breath was shallow and he could feel his heart beating erratically. “Which, uh, speaking of, we have to get going.” He looked from the wall clock to the watch on his wrist, then at Natasha, jerking his head towards the door. “It was nice to meet you!” he said in the general direction of Bucky and Carol before skittering to the door.

“Rogers!” Natasha hissed, following in his wake to the car. “What was that?”

Steve fumbled for the right key to jam into the door. Déjà vu. “What?”

• • • ♕ • • •

Steve could feel Sam’s eyes boring into his back as he loaded the dishes.

“Your ears have been burning since you came in,” Sam said. “Confess.”

Steve gulped, feeling the redness creep across his cheeks. The expression in Bucky’s eyes burned through his memory. “It’s nothing,” he stuttered, unconvincing.

“Spit it out, Rogers.” Steve heard Sam's textbook shut with a thud and forced himself to turn around.

“There was a cute guy at Nat’s dance studio,” he started, voice strangled.

“Rogers, you are fucking hopeless.”

“He’s the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, Sam,” the blush was fully burning across his face, and he heard Sam's loud groan.

“Shut up. He’s drop-dead gorgeous, and when I met him I completely fucked it up,” Steve sighed. He closed the dishwasher and walked over to the couch, draping himself over the back.

“You’re the biggest disaster I’ve ever seen.”

Steve sighed, shoving his face into the couch cushion. He could feel Sam’s hand lightly patting the top of his head. “I can’t catch feelings right now. Not with…everything. I’m being _responsible_, god dammit.”

Sam gave his head a gentle shove and sat back. “Steve, you’re allowed to live a little. When’s the last time you’ve gone on a date, even?”

“But –”

“No buts_._”

Steve tipped his body so he flopped down onto the couch, feet smacking Sam’s thighs. “I do want to talk to him again. But I can’t even form a coherent sentence when he’s looking at –”

Sam shoved his feet away, grabbing his textbook. “_Steve.”_

“Okay. _Okay.”_

What he was really agreeing to, Steve wasn't sure. But he'd figure something out. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The disaster bisexual shenanigans continue :)

Steve stood outside of the rehearsal door, holding two carriers full of smoothies. He wrinkled his nose at the condensation on the outside of the cups that trickled down the cardboard carrier and dripped onto his hands; though honestly, his palms were already clammy past all help. That’s what the thought of talking to Bucky did to him. Maybe when he actually spoke Steve would just combust into flames.

He watched Carol, in a bold blue tank top today, as she moved across the room, pointing to different spots on the floor and doing halfway-executed choreography. The girls – and Bucky – followed her, miming her motions. Steve smiled, fascinated at their process. He caught the muscles in his legs twitching as his eyes tracked their arms and legs moving in tandem, aching to mimic the motions. Maybe he should get back into that adult dance class he took last year.

In no time, Steve’s gazed drifted back to Bucky. His eyes glinted as he looked from Carol to his feet to the mirror, his arms waving and unfolding in an approximation of the motions. His eyebrows were drawn together in concentration, and he alternated biting his lower lip and running his tongue over it. Steve realized his own breathing was suddenly shallow.

“Easy, Rogers,” he muttered, taking a sip of the small strawberry smoothie he got for himself.

The music started, slower than anything Steve had heard them use before, but whimsical and lush. The girls seemed to float across the floor on their pointe shoes, legs reaching high into the air and arms sweeping in graceful arcs across their bodies. Natasha was towards the front of the room and Steve caught a glimpse of her in the mirror, doing a slow turn. Her arms were above her head and as she turned, she pulled them down in front of her body, then swept them out to the sides. Steve tucked the image away in his memory to sketch later. Nat would roll her eyes, but he knew she didn’t mind.

He took a step back as the music stopped and the dancers headed to the door for a water break. The thick, sweat-laden air followed them as the door opened and they spilled into the hall. He’s going to talk to Bucky. He might get Bucky’s number. Maybe he’ll even text Bucky and ask him out on a date -

“What’ve you got there, Steve?” Wanda tilted her head to the side and smiled.

Steve held the smoothies up, trying to grin around the lurching in his stomach. “Smoothies! For you all.”

It was like the dancers had spotted a puppy. Wanda said “Aww!” and Steve thinks another girl screamed. In a moment several of the girls were crowding around him. In all the time Steve had spent at the studio, the girls sometimes laughed and joked but always returned to their serious, focused demeanor. Apparently, smoothies were the thing to make them lose their goddamn minds.

“Oh my god Nat, your friend brought us smoothies!” said another dancer with arm muscles that made Steve do a double take. “Thank you!”

“Wow, Nat should bring her friends here more often,” a tall girl with black hair giggled. There was a scattered chorus of “Thank you,” and one bubbly dancer even squeezed a one-armed hug around him. Natasha just took one out of the carrier, raised one eyebrow at Steve, and walked away.

“Well, now you’re their favorite person, ever,” a girl with a quirked eyebrow and dry tone gave him a smirk.

Steve smiled back at her, feeling his stomach start to unclench. “Hey, can you help me out? Which flavor would Bucky like?”

“Jamie? Mm, probably strawberry,” she said, after a moment.

“Thanks.” Steve gave her a grateful grin and edged around the huddle of girls, casting his eyes around the hallway. No Bucky. Steve frowned and turned towards the dressing rooms.

Bucky must have just emerged from the dressing room, because the fluffy dark hair and keen eyes filled Steve’s vision when he turned around, and he started a little. “Hi,” he stammered, as Bucky walked up to him.

Oh, that smile. Bucky flashed him a crooked, warm grin. “Hi Steve. What’s this?”

_Fuck_. Steve felt his inevitable blush creeping up his neck and ears. “Smoothie. For you.” He held the cup out and forced himself to look his heartthrob, sentence-ruining crush in the eye.

Bucky’s features morphed into one of sweet surprise. “Oh, wow. Thank you.” He took the smoothie, and Steve tried not to react when their pinky fingers brushed. He took a sip and hummed a pleased note. Steve watched his eyes skim over the other dancers. “You brought these for the whole company?”

Steve’s face was on fire. He scratched the back of his neck. _Be calm, Rogers_. “Just thought I’d…uh.” _Thought I’d buy fifteen smoothies as a cover for talking to you again because I am more disgrace than human being_. “Thought you all could use a pick me up.” _Pick_him_ up already._

Bucky took another sip, still that friendly warmth in his eye. “Aren’t you a doll.”

Steve almost passed out right then and there. He breathed a chuckle and glanced at his feet. “How’s rehearsal going?” _Nice going_, he heard Sam’s voice mocking him.

Bucky huffed a breath, a tired smile curling his mouth. “It’s good, actually. It’s hard work, but it’s coming together.”

“Going back in!” Carol strode past the groups of dancers and into the studio. There was a sudden flurry of activity as everyone set their things down, including the half-consumed smoothies, and hurried back in.

The door swung shut. Steve took his spot on the bench, set his smoothie down, and picked up his sketchbook; his personal one this time, the work sketchbook left at home on the kitchen table. When he glanced up for inspiration, he realized no one was dancing. The music was off, and Carol was talking to the dancers, standing in a huddle. Her face was serious – stressed, Steve decided. He watched a few of the girls, and Bucky, interject thoughts, and it looked like the company was negotiating something.

_What’s wrong?_ Steve leaned forward, as if that would help his hearing. Carol’s hand was waving – oh shit, was she waving to him? _Are ballet dancers not supposed to have smoothies in the middle of rehearsal???_

He was already lightheaded and getting back up on his feet didn’t help. He panted lightly as he slipped around the door and took a few halting steps into the room.

“I’m sorry about the smoothies!” he blurted, before Carol could yell at him.

“What?” Nat was looking at him, brow wrinkled. “It’s not that, Rogers. Just come here.”

Oh. Well, shit. Steve crossed the room and joined everyone, heart thudding out of his chest.

Bucky was turned, talking to Carol. “We can switch it back to a traditional pairing, it’s fine. Really. Anyone here can do the solo- “

“No Jamie, we love it this way, don’t even think about changing it back,” the girl who gave Steve a hug said passionately. Several girls murmured agreement.

“Darcy’s right, Jamie. We want this for you, and we want this for the production,” Mora spoke up from the back. “We’ll figure something out.”

Carol looked up and realized he was in the room. “Steve, right?”

Steve nodded, opening his mouth to say sorry again.

“Are you free during our rehearsal time?” she fired at him.

“In general?”

“For the next two months, yes.”

“I – yeah, I think so.”

“And you have dance experience?” Carol stepped forward, zeroed in on him like a hawk.

“I took a modern class last year, for about six months. It was a little bit of everything: lyrical, modern, contemporary. Some hip hop and jazz too.” Steve flushed, suddenly more conscious than ever of the prowess of every other person in the room. He should have said “no” by comparison.

Carol pushed on. “Well here’s the deal, Steve. Jamie is our Sleeping Prince, and we hired a guest professional as our Prince Charming. He just called to tell me he broke his arm. Building something for his kids, I think. Doesn’t matter – he’s not doing lifts or a pas de deux anytime soon. At this short notice, none of the professional dancers are available. We need to get a little creative.” She gave him a considering look. “If you’re available, it might work nicely to have you be our Prince.”

Now Steve was really going to pass out. His eyes were impossibly wide, and he stared back at Carol for one long moment before saying, “Oh. Oh, I…”

Carol folded her lips in and tilted her chin. “Think about it.”

“Okay.” He felt a few pairs of eyes on him and tried not to wither under their appraisal. He backed out of the studio as the music started and the girls moved into their choreography.

He made sure to close the door quietly behind him, then returned to his sketchbook and stared holes into the blank page. Before he quite realized it, his phone was in his hand and he was texting Sam.

_ **I didn’t get his number but they just asked me to be in the show? As prince charming?** _

He stared at the words a moment longer before hitting send. Sam replied within a minute.

_ **WTF STEVE.** _

  
• • • ♕ • • •

  
Steve’s heart rate was as settled as it was going to be, and his mind was only spinning a little bit when rehearsal ended. The girls filed out, smiling and thanking him again for the smoothies. Steve smiled and ducked his head. He glanced through the window and saw Bucky and Carol talking intently.

“Nat,” he hissed as she emerged from the dressing room, smoothie in hand. “What the fuck happened back there. I can’t dance. Did you tell Carol I could dance?”

She gave him an inscrutable look, “I saw you dance last year. You’re not half bad. Plus, Charming doesn’t show up until the dance styles switch. It’s not like you’d need to learn much ballet, either.”

“_Much_?”

“Steve,” it was Carol, poking her head out the studio door. “If Jamie finds a pair of slippers for you, would you come in here and try out a few steps?”

Steve set his mouth in a line. “Sure.” He got up, slowly this time, with a glare at Natasha.

Bucky came back from the dressing room, a pair of worn, faded black slippers in hand. “I took my best guess. Let me know if they don’t fit. We have a few more pairs lying around.”

“Thanks,” Steve said, faintly, and toed his shoes and socks off.

Carol and Bucky were talking again quietly when Steve stepped into the studio. The floor was smooth and ever so slightly spongy, and he took in the feel of it under his toes as he walked. He took in a deep breath to steady his racing pulse and let the lingering smell of sweat and leather wash through him.

“Okay, let’s make this quick,” Carol took a step toward him. “Steve, can you do a demi-plié in first position?”

Steve’s mouth gaped for a moment, thinking furiously. “Um – oh, yes.” He brought the backs of his ankles together, toes pointed out, remembering at the last second to straighten his posture. He did a gentle bend of his knees, as far as they could go easily, then back up.

“Tendu. Hold it so I can see your turnout.” Steve slid one foot across the floor, extending it out until only his toes were touching the ground, foot arched into an approximation of pointed toes. He grimaced to himself, knowing it wasn’t much good. “It’s been a little while,” he offered.

“That’s alright,” Carol said, one eyebrow canted as she studied him. “Do you remember any steps from your classes?”  
  
Steve bit his lip and glanced away, his mind rifling through every memory of his classes in the one-room community center on his side of town. He visualized the mirror, seeing the steps reflected back to the class as they danced, and he nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah…” He shook out his posture and stood ramrod straight, feet parallel. “It’s more contemporary than ballet.”

“That’s fine.” He looked up and saw her eyes were crinkled, encouraging.

Steve breathed in, then out. He lifted his right knee and right arm, dipping his body and turning. He jumped, landing with his feet farther out, then stretched his arms out to his sides, drawing them into his sides in succession as if they were being pulled.

He stumbled on the next step and had to start it over. He did another series of turns, reaching his arms across his body. He turned to do the next step and – nothing. His mind was a complete blank.

“That's all I remember,” he admitted.

“When's the last time you danced, last year?” Steve turned to see Bucky giving him a smile far too warm and encouraging. “That was great, you pulled that out cold.”

Steve grimaced, shaking his head. “Don’t. I know it wasn't good.”

Bucky shrugged. He looked at Carol, then back to Steve. “We had one more thing we wanted to see. Would you mind trying a few steps out with me?”

Steve swallowed. “What kind of steps?”

Bucky crossed the room, close enough that Steve could smell the tang of his sweat. “Nothing hard. Here,” he held out his hand. Steve took it, willing himself to be casual about it.

Bucky stood so they were facing the mirror, standing opposite each other. “Just copy me. Mirror me if you can.”

He made a swooping gesture outward with the hand that wasn’t holding Steve’s. Steve mimicked him with his own free hand, a breath behind. Bucky pivoted and took a step towards Steve, his leg unfolding gracefully. Steve turned his hips and matched his step, then took the next step facing away as Bucky did the same. They did that twice more, ending with their bodies turned toward each other, their chests almost touching. Steve forced his breath to steady.

“Curve past me,” Bucky said, then dipped, his torso making an arc that match his lifted arm. Steve leaned the opposite direction, trying to make the angle of his arm match Bucky’s effortless curve. Then Bucky spun inward, stopping in front of him. “We can stop there. The next step is a turn. I don’t want to throw you in too deep.”

A flash of something sparked through Steve, and he looked square into Bucky’s eyes. “I can do it.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth lifted. “Alright. Put your hands on my waist, make sure you can feel my ribs. If you can’t your hands are too low. Keep them steady, but don’t squeeze.” He placed Steve’s hands on his body, and Steve catalogued the muscles he felt through his shirt. “I’m going to spin inside of your hands. You can help me turn. Just don’t let me tip over.” Bucky looked up, and Steve realized how long his dark eyelashes were.

“Okay,” Steve breathed.

Bucky’s face shifted – Steve recognized the lift of his eyebrows that happened when he was transitioning back into the dance – then he drew one foot up the other leg, extended it past his side, and curved it behind his body. He tilted around one way, then the other, then brought his leg around to do a pirouette. He spun, quicker than Steve expected, and he fumbled to follow his movements. “Shit, sorry. Do it again.”

He tracked Bucky’s spin better the second time, moving his hands at the same rate. It felt fluid, and Steve allowed himself a flushed smile. Bucky was just as beautiful dancing up close.

Bucky landed the pirouette, still raised on his tiptoes, so his eyes were level with Steve’s. His eyes flicked across Steve’s face before coming back to his eyes. “Not bad, punk.” He smiled, then stepped down. Steve released his hold on his waist and took a deep breath.

“Steve,” Carol looked pleased. “I think you’d be a good fit.” Steve opened his mouth to protest, but Carol shrugged, as if she already knew what he was going to say. “Sure, we’d have to do some work. But you’re a quick learner and you have experience.” She pinned him with a look. “If you’re willing to put in a little time and work, we’ll hire you for the part.”

Steve shut his mouth, considering. Could he really be in a ballet on top of work? Taking care of his mother? Keeping the house running? Even with there being some money in it, the time and effort…

Bucky tilted his head towards him. “What do you think, pal?” Bucky's eyes caught his.

“Okay,” Steve heard the words coming out of his mouth. “Yeah, I'm in.”

  
• • • ♕ • • •

  
Steve walked up to the beeping microwave and took the heat pack out. He shook it in one hand and fished an ice pack out of the freezer with the other. Satisfied the heat pack was hot enough, he carried them over to his mother’s bedroom.

“Here's heat and ice, ma. Which do you want first?”

Sarah was lying facedown, eyes closed but sleeplessness etched into the lines of her face. “Ice,” she mumbled, her voice slurred.

Both Sarah and Steve knew how to navigate her migraines by now. It had taken months and months for them to figure out that when the headache included pain in Sarah’s upper back and neck, alternating heat and ice was the best way to manage the symptoms. Steve wrapped the icepack in a thin washcloth and laid it at the base of her neck. Sarah made a small noise – in relief or pain, it was hard to tell.

“Thank you, baby,” she slurred, eyes still closed.

“Love you ma.” It didn’t need saying that he was a text away if she needed anything else.

“Good day?” Sarah already sounded like she was drifting.

“Yeah. I think I just got cast in a ballet with Nat’s dance crew.”

“Ballet?” Sarah peeked one half-open eye at him.

“Yeah. A lot happened. I'll tell you in the morning. Get some sleep,” he bent down and kissed her head, then traipsed quietly to the door.

He really said yes, didn't he.

God, could he really keep his cool for two months dancing with the guy he couldn’t even manage to ask for his phone number?


	4. Chapter 4

“Can you do _anything_ the easy way, Steve?"

The dart hit the board with a thud. Sam took a swig from his beer and turned to pin Steve with a look.

Steve sat at the table and stared down into his root beer, stolidly ignoring the jab. It was Saturday night darts and beer – which, for Steve, Sam, and Nat, was better translated into Time To Roast Each Other Until We Can’t See Straight. This was their favorite spot – _Odinson’s_ had good beer, wasn’t too spendy, and had quiet alcoves for darts and pool away from the loud music and rowdy yelling at the bar. It was the only dive bar Steve had found in all of Brooklyn where he could actually hear without asking Sam or Nat to repeat themselves every single sentence.

Natasha stepped up to throw. Her hair was down and it brushed against her leather jacket at the shoulders. “Give him a break, Sam. Can you blame him for wanting a good excuse to get his hands all over a cute twink?”

_Thunk – _a bullseye. Steve choked on his root beer.

“It’s not like that,” he said, while Sam and Nat high fived over the hit. “Nat, how’s work?”

“Security or training? I’m not going to talk about either.” Natasha gave him a smirk. “And nice try. I don’t think Sam’s going to let you get off that easy.”

Sam tossed another dart, cursing when it went wide. “Remind me to stop drinking if I want a chance against Nat at darts.”

Natasha turned to Steve, holding up her darts, one eyebrow raised. Steve held up his hand to decline. Normally he’d be going toe-to-toe with Sam, but it took all his energy just to get to _Odinson’s_ and drink not-alcohol. Just standing to play darts sounded like too much right now.

The morning had started off _great._ Great meaning all of Steve’s activities from the past week had hit him like a ton of bricks.

Achy, tight pain had bloomed across his back when he rolled over and sat up in bed that morning. From his shoulders to his hips he felt stiff, and a familiar weight not unlike a hippo sitting on his chest made him short of breath.

Sure, he’d been doing a little extra driving and sitting, but surely doing a few dance steps last night wasn’t enough tip his body over the edge.

Apparently it was, but Sarah Rogers didn’t raise a quitter. Steve had eased his way downstairs to make breakfast even though every fiber in his being ached to lay back down. Omelets and bacon were steaming on the plates and Steve was pushing the potatoes around the pan when Sam came in from his morning run. Sam had given a hoot and trotted into the kitchen.

“Hands off, you stink.” Steve had said, swatting Sam’s hand away from a slice of bacon.

“Thanks for breakfast, Steve,” Sam had replied breezily, taking a huge bite for good measure. Steve shoved the potatoes out onto the three plates, giving Sam the biggest helping anyway.

Steve had taken a plate to Sarah, and then sat down on the couch to eat his, listening to Sam jabber from the kitchen about some slow-ass on his morning route.

He woke up on the couch three hours later, the last remnant of eggs cold on his plate and his neck stiff from whatever position he had conked out in. When he sat up, he realized Sam had put a blanket on him and cleaned up the kitchen.

Sometimes Saturdays were for getting ahead in the week, and sometimes they were for catching up. Steve had done little else besides putter around the house and check in on Sarah before he and Sam left for their weekly ritual gathering.

“Steve. Really, man,” Sam was saying while Natasha took her turn. “All you were supposed to do was talk to the guy. Flirt. Ask him out to a movie, maybe dinner. What about that is so hard?”

Steve sat back in his chair and tossed his hands up. “I haven’t danced in almost a year, Sam. You’re the one who told me to go live a little.”

“I didn’t tell you to sign up for a mother-fucking-_ballet_ with your _wet dream crush._”

Steve drained his root beer, shrugging. “It won't be a big deal. I won't _let it_ be a big deal.”

“Uh-huh.” Sam threw again. “Yes!” he crowed, the dart landing…well, closer to bullseye in comparison. He pumped his fist in celebration.

Natasha turned back to Steve, squinting at him carefully. “You really think playing it cool is going to work?”

That really was the worst thing to say. Steve felt his hackles rising. “Come on, Nat. Give me some credit. _You're_ the one who called him a twink, not me.”

“Jamie’s a friend. He’d be flattered. Granted, he'd tell me he's actually an otter - it's not like I haven't called him that to his face.” Natasha raised her glass, pointedly away from Steve’s stricken face.

“Nat,” he choked out.

“Sam, how are classes?” Natasha asked, sickly sweet.

They caught up on Sam's grad classes and his internship with the VA psychologist, on Natasha's side job doing weapons training – she won't tell them what her main employment is, and so far Sam and Steve have only been able to guess that it’s something to do with security – and her housemates, Barton and van Dyne who they see every few months when Sam and Steve host dinner. And of course, Nat made Sam and Steve update her on Sarah.

“She's coming down from a bad flare up,” Steve said, on his second root beer and wishing he felt well enough for real beer, but some days the mix of heart problems and 7% ABV just wasn’t worth it. “Kept her down for the last two weeks.”

“Longer than normal,” Sam added.

Steve nodded. “Bad migraine too, but she’s up and moving now and trying some new medication to manage the pain.”

Natasha nodded, face neutral and eyes on the table, but Steve knew that she cared about Sarah just as much as he did

She was there, with Steve in his dorm room freshman year, scared and sobbing when Sarah’s muscle spasms were so intense she couldn’t get out of bed; she met Steve for lunch and coffee almost every day when he dropped out of university to get his Associate's instead at the community college, his schedule built around taking Sarah to specialist after specialist. Nat was there when the dark circles under his eyes deepened as he took classes part time and became Sarah’s caregiver. Natasha was the one holding his hand when they came home from the doctor with the multiple sclerosis diagnosis. Part of Steve was relieved, just from the knowing. Sarah was too.

Natasha held his eyes for a long moment, and for Steve it was as good as her reaching across the table and giving him a hug.

It wasn’t much later that the trio slid back their chairs and shrugged on their jackets. The humming activity of the rest of the bar became a harsh clattering that enveloped Steve’s senses as they moved back towards the main area to settle their tabs. Even the low lights seemed to burst harder behind his eyelids when the noise level was this high and assaulted his system.

None of that, however, was enough to keep him from hearing an outburst across the bar.

“You fucking bitch!” a man spat out at a woman who was visibly shrinking down, her eyes livid. “You've always been a fucking slut.”

Steve was in front of the guy in two steps. “Hey! You wanna say that again?” he barked, looking up into the other man’s face. Fuck, this guy was tall, if Steve had to tilt his chin up.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man snarled right back.

Sam and Natasha were still settling their tabs and eyed Steve from the bar. Sam leaned towards Natasha’s ear. “Should we tell him to take it down a notch?” Sam was no fan of assholes like this guy, but he had also taken a conflict management and de-escalation class. Two, in fact.

“You first,” Natasha said back. “I prefer to let these things run their course.”

“Apologize to the lady!” Steve hollered up at the other man, who seemed to inflate his chest a little more and crowd into Steve’s space.

“Get out of my way, asshole,” the man said as he strode forward, fists clenched.

“Afraid I can’t do that, pal.” The words were barely out of Steve’s mouth before the fist came flying and connected with his nose with a crack.

A flurry of gasps and _oohs_ washed up from the nearby occupants. Steve staggered backward, catching the edge of a table with one hand and swinging with the other, landing a hit.

Steve took one more solid punch to the face before several people started to pull the two men apart. The bartender descended upon them a split second later, red-faced.

“What's wrong with you people! Don't bring your shit into my bar!” the bartender sputtered.

“Well, that's our cue,” Natasha said, and she and Sam moved as a single unit towards the door, Sam reaching for Steve’s elbow and tugging him out behind them.

• • • ♕ • • •

“Congratulations for getting us kicked out of our favorite bar,” Sam deadpanned on the subway, watching the blood seep through the flannel shirt Steve had pressed to his nose. He sat between Natasha and Sam, face tilted up, eyes boring straight into the unforgiving fluorescents of the train.

“He was a dick,” Steve said around the cloth shoved in his face, stubborn. “Can’t just do nothin’.”

“Yeah, yeah. Shut your mouth before you start choking on blood or somethin’.” Sam bumped Steve’s shoulder with his own, giving his face a once over like he’d been doing every 30 seconds since they sat down.

“You’d been doing so well, too, Rogers.” Natasha added from Steve’s other side. She leaned forward to give Sam a smirk. “Think we should bring the jar back?”

There used to be a running tally in the form of a jar full of quarters to mark how many days Steve went without getting into a fight. Sam and Natasha would take turns dropping quarters in each day, and after a fight the jar earnings went to whoever helped clean Steve up as a meager form of emotional compensation. Sometimes, mostly in their college days, compensation was exactly 25 cents.

Steve groaned and Sam cackled. He raised one finger delicately to Steve’s left eye. “Gonna have yourself a nice shiner in the morning.”

“I know, I can feel it,” Steve said, pained.

Sam shrugged and sat back. “Hey, it’s not so bad. Maybe you can get your ballet boy to kiss it better.”

Steve sputtered, then hastily readjusted the cloth as the movement triggered more blood. Natasha was smirking.

“Hah, hah.” Steve said finally.

The train screeched to their stop. Steve’s bleeding had eased up enough that he could pull the shirt away from his face and hold it in one crumpled-up fist as they got down.

They reached Natasha’s apartment complex first. “Night, boys.” She flicked a quarter at Sam before turning to go up the stairs to her 4th-story apartment. “Next ones on me.”

Steve glowered and Sam cackled as they walked the rest of the way home.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks and warm hugs to all of you following this story! You can follow me on [ twitter ](https://twitter.com/bisexualcapps) for updates :)

Steve’s eye was an angry, blotchy purple and more than a little swollen by the time he and Sarah left for Sunday morning Mass. Sarah took one look at him as they headed out the door and sighed without a word. He caught more than a few looks of concern from other congregants in the pews as he and Sarah shuffled in. It amused Steve; it reminded him of being younger, smaller, of showing up every Sunday with bruises and scrapes, with frowns and worried clucks following in his wake. It happened less often now.

Steve and Sarah went to Sunday Mass as long as Steve could remember; it was one of the few constants growing up, alongside bruise cream and band-aids and the smell of his mother’s scrubs when she came home from a shift. Though the motions were familiar, his body still protested against them. Too long standing and he felt the light-headedness begin; too long sitting and his spine started to burn. The homily began and Steve shifted in the pew, trying not to obviously fidget as his spine protested being forced upright.

“I talked to the hospital,” Sarah leaned over to speak into his good ear, voice in an undertone, and then said something else that blended in with the priest’s voice coming from the pulpit.

“What?” Steve turned so he could see her lips.

“I’m on call this week.” Sarah kept her voice low, but Steve more read than heard her words.

“You’re going back to work?”

Sarah gave him a chiding look. “Just desk work. Don’t puppy-eyes me, Steven.”

Steve swallowed, quelling a rise of frustration. Sarah had officially quit her full-time position at the hospital four years ago, switching to part time, which lasted another two years before the MS sapped her stamina and she couldn’t make it through a shift without passing out. They’d tried the on-call setup once before, about a year ago, but it had ended when Sarah had gotten the most sick she’d ever been and was completely bedridden for a month. And she was _just_ getting through another flare up. If it was up to Steve, he would say she’s nowhere near close to being ready to go back.

But it wasn’t up to Steve, and hell, he got his stubborn streak from somewhere.

Steve shifted his jaw and looked away, trying to hide the disapproval – and worry – that he knew was all over his face. The priest’s voice intoned over his agitated huff.

Then Sarah slipped an arm around his, leaning her weight ever so slightly against his shoulder. Steve looked down where her head was resting on him and realized some of her flaxen hair was starting to turn gray. Steve’s breath caught and felt something twinge in his chest. Who was he to keep his strong, brilliant mother back any more than her bodily heath already was?

“You and me, Ma,” he murmured, a peace offering as the priest finished and they eased back to their feet to recite the creed. Steve’s earliest memory was of Sarah tapping his nose and saying those words: _“It’s just you and me baby, you and me.” _She would say in the grocery store, during dinner, in the bathroom every time she cleaned up his scraped knees, every time Steve’s temper flared and every time she held him while he cried. Those were their words.

Steve said it again softly, “You and me.”

Sarah squeezed his arm and smiled.

• • • ♕ • • •

Steve walked into the studio on Monday, and old gym bag slung over one shoulder with a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt inside. The girls were at the barre warming up and gasped when they saw him. He had forgotten – he still had a few dark blotches around his eye and a purple-red scar on the side of his nose.

Bucky whistled. “What happened to you, pal?”

“Steve, are you okay?” Wanda asked at the same time, her eyebrows drawn together in concern. Some people had paused their warmups to turn and look.

Steve shook his head, dismissively. “Nothing, just -” he sighed and felt his cheeks burn. “Just an asshole at the bar. Don’t worry, I had ‘im on the ropes,” he mumbled.

Bucky smirked his direction. “You really are a punk.”

Steve felt his blush redden. He caught Bucky’s smirk, then looked away. Bucky’s cheekbones were _distracting_ up close. He was going to be this awkward through the whole production, wasn’t he? Maybe he should drop out now before he got a chance to screw the whole thing up because he couldn’t look a cute guy in the face. He felt a knot tighten in his stomach.

Carol strode in and clapped her hands. “Alright everyone. Let's get started.” She did a double take when she got to Steve. “Whoa. You okay?”

“He took a couple hits in the name of chivalry at _Odinson’s _this weekend,” Natasha interjected, one leg practically over her head in a side split. She returned Steve’s dirty look with a wink.

Carol arched an eyebrow in his direction. “Take better care of those looks, _Prince Charming_.”

Bucky snorted, “Looks like Rogers is more of a Prince Vigilante.”

“Sorry, could you show me where the dance studio is? I walked into the comedy club on accident.” Steve deadpanned, without thinking. He walked over to join Bucky at the barre, while Bucky laughed, easy and soft and light. The knot in Steve’s stomach loosened by a fraction. This. This was okay.

Warmups were more like a crash course for Steve, who hadn’t so much as pointed his toes in almost a year, let alone move them so quickly across the floor and up his legs and through the air. He tried not to openly gape at Bucky as his leg unfolded into an attitude, hip opened to allow his thighs to rotate at an angle Steve could only dream of achieving. He felt his own hips offer stiff protest when he tried to rotate out into a bare minimum turnout.

When the warmup cycle finished, Carol turned to Steve and Bucky. “Jamie, take Steve to the second studio and work on the pas de deux.”

Bucky nodded and tipped his head towards the door. “C’mon this way.” He picked up his phone and a notebook on his way out. Steve followed Bucky into the second studio, his sweat-misted skin prickling against the much cooler air.

Bucky flicked the lights on and walked into the middle of the room, talking over his shoulder, “You’ve got four main dances, plus some steps in the story and acting bits.” Bucky swiped his phone and typed something in, “The pas de deux is going to be the most challenging, so we’ll walk through that first.”

He handed Steve his phone. It was opened to a YouTube video from a professional production. The main figures – presumably Sleeping Beauty and Prince Charming – look like they’d stepped straight out of royal English monarchy. The characters in the background had powdered wigs, even. Bucky started the video midway, where the main characters were performing a series of swan dives across the stage.

“Is – is this what we’re going for?” Steve stuttered, trying to picture himself in the ornate gold getup and failing.

“What? I’m sure you would _kill it_ in a cravat, Rogers.” Bucky peered over his shoulder as the pair in the video began arabesques across the stage towards each other.

“If you don’t wear a tutu I’ll quit,” Steve retorted.

Bucky laughed and shoved gently at Steve’s shoulder. He scrubbed the video back thirty seconds with one finger, and Steve tried not to inhale the mixture of sandalwood, vanilla, and musk as Bucky’s head tilted closer. “We’re going to keep the swan dive and the shoulder sit, and most of the turns,” Bucky resumed as the video finished loading. “The rest we get to have fun with. There’s a time jump in the story, so we decided to have the dance styles in the second half jump forward by a few hundred years too. No rule says we can’t blend the classical with modern and make choreography of our own. The time gap while the castle is under the spell is going to feel that much more dramatic. Picture it: curtain falls to Tchaikovsky and curtseys and comes back up to _synths_ and _bass _and a guy doing a modern solo. Game changer.”

Steve takes in Bucky’s twinkling eyes and the barely contained smile around his mouth. “It was your idea, wasn’t it?”

A bashful grin slipped out, and Bucky nodded. “Carol’s real great. I’ve been dancing here since she opened, and these days we’ve got more of a co-creator relationship. She loved it when I told her.”

Steve smiled, then realized Bucky had said _a guy doing a modern solo._ “Oh shit, that’s me dancing alone to all that synth and bass, huh?”

Bucky waved a hand in the air, “Worries for another day. Let’s get our pas de deux going.”

They walked through the steps, over and over, and Steve was pleased to find he remembered more from his dance classes than he initially thought. They twirled and flung their legs into the air and did rib and chest isolations. Steve was grateful he had good reason to stare at Bucky as he did the steps, because _holy shit_, this guy really was magic. At one point Bucky demonstrated a step in the choreography, both hands clasped and circling over his head as he swung his hips, and if Steve had been a fraction less occupied trying to mimic him with equal grace he would have had some explaining to do in his sweatpants.

“So, jump, and then…” Bucky grunted as he did a jump with legs flung behind him, the landing bringing him all the way to the ground in a roll before springing back to his feet.

Steve visibly blanched, “Ah…” he coughed, and fidgeted on his feet. He wasn’t going to tell the most skilled dancer he’d ever seen, let alone worked with, that he needed to modify his steps. “Okay.” He mimicked the jump and tucked his leg under him, rolling over and then rising back to his feet with a small spin. The room rocked sideways in his vision and his head spun, pressure hard around his eyes as forced his body to follow through into the next step.

_Note to self: bring compression socks next time. _They would help his blood flow and take the edge off the dizziness.

For all of Steve’s nerves, working with Bucky was – nice. Sure, he was hot as hell and Steve sometimes had to ask him to redo the step because Steve had stood there, slack-jawed and mesmerized instead of learning, but it was…._ easier_ than Steve had thought. Bucky was a good teacher, and he wasn’t afraid to give Steve shit.

“Elongate your fingers, Rogers, jesus.” Bucky tugged Steve’s fingers out of what was something like a fist, “Not everything’s a fight.”

“Hey!” Steve laughed, batting his hands away without any heat. To his surprise Bucky swiped back at him, and they stood there for a second just swatting hands gracelessly at each other. Steve realized he was looking into Bucky’s eyes as he laughed. Steve was biting his lip –

_Don’t flirt don’t flirt you have a job to do, don’t flirt DON’T FLIRT._

That was the unending drone in Steve’s mind as one rehearsal went by, then another, and another.

By day three Steve was comfortably matching Bucky through half of the pas de deux, dancing his own mirrored part. It started with the steps Bucky had walked through with him the very first time they danced – elegant steps and arms outspread to the audience, Bucky pirouetting inside of Steve’s hands. After the pirouettes, they stepped towards opposite corners, then turned back towards each other, arms outstretched, swiveling hips and swinging legs and arms around in broad, elegant lines. When they came together, their hands were clasped together and their foreheads touched, before Steve twirled around behind Bucky and grasped his hips so Bucky could do a truly stunning backbend, arms extended in perfect form.

Carol came in to check on them towards the end of rehearsal. She stood in the corner by the door, hips askance and arms crossed, one corner of her mouth quirked up in tandem with a single eyebrow. Steve and Bucky went from the start under Carol’s appraising eye but stopped as they got to the step where Bucky did a triple pirouette that goes into a swan dive. “Still working on it,” Steve said to Carol.

“Okay then,” Carol waved her hands for them to continue. Steve glanced at Bucky, an apology in advance. Bucky executed the pirouette, and Steve wrapped an arm around his waist as Bucky dropped his weight onto Steve’s bent leg. Bucky’s legs were up and arched behind Steve’s head, and their outstretched arms were parallel lines in front of them. Steve could feel Bucky’s abdominal muscles clenching and trembling against his leg. They held the pose as long as they dared – not long enough, yet – and Steve swung Bucky up and forward into an attitude.

“Okay,” said Carol, and stepped closer to give them feedback, adjusting Steve’s grip and the line of Bucky’s legs. “Not bad, boys. Keep it up.”

“I’m hungry.” Bucky announced in the dressing room later as they packed up. He peeled off his damp white shirt and tossed it in his bag.

Steve, still in his newly-acquired tights, gave himself exactly half a second to check Bucky out before studying the floor intimately.

“Well,” he said as Bucky rolled down his tights – oh right, there was nothing underneath, okay – “There's a 24 hour diner down the street. Want to go?”

“Sounds great,” Bucky said through the sweatshirt he was pulling over his head. He had slipped briefs and jeans on, too, in the time Steve was dutifully attentive to a loose thread on the floor near his toe.

“I'll meet you out there,” Steve called over his shoulder as Bucky headed for the door. _Think non-horny thoughts, Rogers._

• • • ♕ • • •

They walked to the diner together. The wind tousled Bucky's hair as they walked, and he looked stunning against the city lights. They took turns moaning about their sore legs and laughing as they walked the short distance.

“How long have you danced?” Steve asked over chicken strips and barbeque sauce. In front of Bucky was a cheeseburger and, adorably to Steve, a strawberry milkshake.

A smile crept over Bucky’s face, so soft and natural Steve guessed he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “My whole life, really. Since I was five. My mom enrolled me and my sister in lessons and I just,” he waved his hand, “never stopped.” He bit into his burger, “My sister quit in high school, but I’ve never been able to give it up.”

“Did you do it professionally?”

“Thought about it. But I got an engineering degree and work in aerospace instead. I think I like dancing better if I don’t have to worry about living off of it,” Bucky said around a generous bite. Why does the guy look adorable chomping on 24 hour diner food?

“Wow, that’s….amazing,” Steve said, genuine, but couldn’t think of a thing to say after that. They chipped away at their post-dance dinner for a few moments in oddly comfortable silence.

“What do you do?” Bucky finally broke the spell.

“I’m a graphic designer. Mostly just ads, logos, that kind of thing.”

The monotone of his answer made Bucky looked more closely at him, “But you do it because you enjoy it too, right?”

“I draw for fun too, mostly on pen and paper.” Suddenly his fries were incredibly interesting. Steve’s face made a self-deprecating shape. “It’s nothing impressive to a guy who works on actual spaceships.”

“Steve,” Bucky pushed his fries to the side and put a hand over Steve. Steve had the distinct realization that his own fingers were smudged with barbeque sauce. “It’s not a competition. Besides,” he reached for his milkshake and kept talking around the straw, “I can’t draw for shit.”

Bucky’s eyes crinkled and the way his nose scrunched bubbled a laugh out of Steve. He shook his head and grinned back at Bucky. “Thanks, pal.”

“I want to see your art sometime” he gave Steve that blinding grin again.

He crumpled up his burger wrapper and returned his attention to the rest of his fries and shake. Steve reached for a napkin, dove into his pocket for a pen, and drew careful lines into the thin material. “Are you and your sister close?” he asked.

“I’ve actually got four sisters,” Bucky nodded in response to Steve’s wide-eyed look. “My parents moved back to Indiana, but me and Becca – the one who danced too – stayed here. We grew up in Brooklyn. Can I have some of your fries?” Steve tipped the container towards him. “We’re loud, the five of us together. What about you?”

“Just me and my ma. It’s always been just us.” Steve remembered that she was at the hospital tonight, working her second shift of the week.

Something must have shown on his face, because Bucky gently lowered his voice, “She okay?”

Steve sighed. “Yeah. She’s a nurse, a real good one, but she’s got some bad health stuff too, so, just makes things complicated. I worry a lot.” He added one last touch to the napkin, then capped the pen and turned the napkin towards Bucky. “Here, for you.”

It was a cartoon of a rocket flying through the stars, Bucky’s smiling face in the giant window in the side.

“Steve!” Bucky picked it up delicately, casting an awestruck smile from the cartoon to Steve. He laughed delightedly. “Can I keep it?”

“It’s all yours, Buck,” Steve smiled back.

They talked about Bucky’s aerospace job and Steve’s clients at Shield Graphics as they walked back to the studio.

“Seriously, the things people ask for,” Steve laughed, shaking his head, “with obviously no understanding of how graphic design works, at all.”

Bucky winced in sympathy, “I don’t have anything like that. But sometimes, we get deadlines so rushed, my whole team pulls overtime until the project is done. I saw someone work around the clock once for 27 hours without taking a break.” Bucky shook his head.

“Geez, Buck, aren’t there, ya know, unions or something for that?”

Bucky shook his head again, “Don’t get me started on that. A rant for another time.”

They reached Steve’s car, and he unlocked the door while Bucky continued walking towards his own beat up sedan.

“Hey, Steve,” Bucky said in a different tone. Steve looked up. “Thanks for tonight.” Bucky’s smile was soft and Steve felt his insides start to melt.

“Don’t mention it, Buck. See you later.” Steve waved him goodnight and drove off.

He did nothing to stop the stupid smile that spread across his face the whole way back.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> helloooo and thank you for your patience! as i've talked about on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/bisexualcapps) i've been caught up in some social activism in my community as well as doing grad school. chapters may go down to once a week until after the new year. not sure yet, but in the meantime, enjoy!

“It wasn't a date!” Steve exclaimed for the fourth time.

It was the weekend, and Sam and Nat were sitting in the kitchen, harassing Steve while he caught up on work before dinner. He sat tucked away at the far end of the kitchen table, stylus in hand, hovering over the tablet screen.

Sam was cooking which was always good news in the Rogers-Wilson household. Not only did he wear his “Kiss the chef” apron every time he was in the kitchen, Sam was also the best cook in the house. They ruled that Sarah was a very close second, and Steve was still somewhere near the starting line. Whatever was in the pan was sizzling, and the smell of spices wafted through the house. Natasha sat on the edge of the kitchen counter, a mug of tea in hand. Whenever Sam turned his back, Steve watched her pick bites out of the pan.

“You went out to eat together and got to know each other,” Sam said, and sprinkled something else into the pan that made it hiss, “What about that isn't a date? You don't have to share fries for it to count.”

“Well,” Steve started, then thought better of it, but it was too late.

“Steve! You shared fries? Natasha, hit him on the head for me.”

Natasha moved as if to hop off the counter, swiping one arm in his direction, and Steve ducked and covered his head with a squeal.

“Is Steve hiding a boy from me?” Sarah appeared in the kitchen, a gleam in her eyes and scrubs swapped for sweatpants and a robe.

“No,” said Steve, at the same moment that Sam and Natasha said, “Yes,” in unison.

Sarah looked from Steve’s scowling face to the others’ smirks. “I see,” she said, the barest uptick of a smile in the corner of her mouth. She pulled out a spoon and scooped into Sam’s cooking, “This smells amazing, baby.” Sam glowed at the praise.

“How’s the ballet going, Romy?” Sarah had given Natasha the nickname off her last name back when they first met in Steve’s first year of college, and no one else dared use it. Sarah sat down at the table, turning the chair so she could see Natasha and Steve.

“Good. You’ll like it,” Natasha said. “I mean, it’s better to take a nap during Steve’s parts, but you’ll like the rest.”

Steve threw a pen at Nat. Sarah laughed, but the ringing, warm sound tapered off quickly into a quiet wince. She pressed a hand to her chest, eyes shut.

“Ma,” Steve said quietly, “what’s up?”

Sarah shook her head and shrugged, in the dismissal of someone who’s been juggling too many symptoms for too long.

Sam appeared at Sarah’s elbow, two bowls full of steaming, spicy food in his hands. “Time to eat,” he announced, setting the bowls down and returning to the counter for the others.

• • • ♕ • • •

“You know what I forgot to tell you?” Bucky was warming up in the corner, swinging his legs forward and back, one hand placed lightly on the barre.

Steve looked up from his spot on the floor where he was gently bending the top of his feet backwards, face trapped in a grimace at the stretch.

“In the original ballet, your character’s name is actually _Prince Desire_.” Bucky waggled his eyebrows, and then to Steve’s peril gave him an exaggerated wink with his tongue sticking out of his open mouth.

The redness and heat crept up Steve’s neck, but he made a valiant effort to laugh casually. “Oh god. I hope that doesn’t catch on.”

“Why not? Just saying, we got our casting right. Who isn’t gonna thirst after those biceps,” Bucky propped his foot up onto the barre and reached his torso along the length of his leg, back now to Steve. “Maybe we should make all of your costumes sleeveless.”

Steve watched Bucky’s stretching form in the mirror, grateful that Bucky couldn’t see the look on his face. “Hey, up to you. You’ll be the only one my sweat drips all over.”

“Hah. I’m not afraid, Rogers.” Bucky spun back around and walked towards Steve, his stretching done. He reached a hand to Steve, “Speaking of sweat.”

They got to work. The last two rehearsals were spent half dancing, and half walking around the room with a notebook and pencil in hand, deciding on the final choreography for their dances. All that was left was to work it enough to perform it for Carol and get it approved.

“Do the lift for real,” Bucky said, breathless, as they approached the next step.

“But what if I drop you?” Steve asked.

Bucky’s eyes – today they looked more green than blue, Steve realized – met his, taking in Steve’s drawn brows, the mess of his hair, the sweat framing his face. “I trust you, Steve. We just gotta go for it.”

They stepped toward each other, Steve behind Bucky, and wrapped his hands around Bucky’s ribs. They inhaled and bent their knees together, then Steve hoisted Bucky up –

“Shit, shit, sorry.” Steve said as Bucky’s feet lifted about six inches and then landed right back on the floor. “Go again.”

His fingers tapped against Bucky’s ribs, and they breathed and braced together. This time, Steve let the strength of his legs and back support his arms, and then Bucky was above him his body draped out from Steve’s hands, one arm elongated behind them, one leg unfolding into the air. Steve walked forwards, counting six steps, then lowered Bucky back to the ground in front of him. “How was that?”

Bucky flicked his dark curls out of his eyes and smiled, his eyes crinkling, “Almost perfect.”

Twenty minutes later, they were in the main studio, the rest of the company taking a break along the walls.

“Steve and Jamie are going to run the pas de deux for us,” said Carol, and someone whooped.

Steve took his starting pose at the back of the room next to Bucky, his heart kicking up with sudden nerves. He locked eyes with Natasha, who waggled her eyebrows at him. _Dork_, she mouthed at him.

“Now remember, don’t fuck it up,” Bucky said, his voice grave.

Steve took his pointed foot and knocked it against Bucky’s. “Jerk.”

Bucky snickered, “Punk.”

Carol tapped her phone and an orchestral fanfare poured through the speakers mounted in the room. It would later be overtaken by synth textures and a modern beat, a remix of Tchaikovsky’s original piece. But now, the symphony rose and fell in a crashing scale, and the memory in Steve’s muscles took over.

The next six minutes were a whirlwind as they moved through the dance and into each of Steve’s favorite poses. They ran toward each other, Steve knelt, and Bucky leaned down in an arabesque that brought their faces inches from each other. He picked Bucky up, Bucky’s arms around his neck and legs stretched past him as they dipped. Bucky did a quadruple pirouette in his hands and landed with a curved leg and arms outstretched, and Steve didn’t even need to glanc at them in the mirror to know that his arm in the air was perfectly matched, and it was flawless.

The room burst into applause when they broke from the final pose. Steve slumped over, hands on his thighs to catch his breath. He noticed Bucky was holding out his hand, so Steve slapped his palm.

An odd look crossed Bucky’s face, then he squeezed Steve’s shoulder and shot him a grin.

“Alright,” Carol clapped her hands and paused the next song to give them notes.

• • • ♕ • • •

The dressing room was quiet later as they gulped down water and wiped the sweat off their necks. Steve slipped his sweats on and leaned back against the wall, feeling his legs turn to jelly.

A quiet “_ungh_,” slipped from Bucky’s lips, and Steve looked up to see him standing near the door, rubbing at his shoulder, his mouth twisted in discomfort.

“What’s wrong?”

Bucky grimaced, “Bad shoulder. I injured it in high school and it never recovered all the way. It acts up when I do too much.” He shrugged it off.

“Hey,” Steve started, sitting up, “come here. Sit down.” He gestured to the space on the padded bench next to him.

Bucky said nothing but crossed the room and sat down. Steve put one tentative hand on his shoulder blade. “May I?” he asked, and Bucky answered by shifting so Steve had access to his whole back.

Steve set his large hands gently on Bucky’s shoulder, pressing his fingers into the muscle lightly and rubbing. To his surprise, Bucky leaned back into his touch. “You can go harder.”

Steve tried to get more leverage, one elbow in the air. “This is a weird angle,” he confessed with a huff.

“Okay, hold on,” and then Bucky slipped down off the bench and planted himself on the ground between Steve’s thighs. “Better?”

The feeling of Bucky’s arms brushing against his legs made Steve’s breath catch in his throat. He was so soft and looked so small sitting there in front of him, his sweat damp hair curled at the nape of his neck. Steve willed his hands back to his shoulder and dug in with careful fingers.

“Nngh,” Bucky groaned quietly as Steve’s slid his knuckles across a hard knot. Via sheer willpower Steve kept his breathing even and let his hands wander towards the nape of Bucky’s neck, rubbing circles into his soft skin, not minding the slight stickiness of dried sweat. Bucky exhaled something between a sigh and a moan and his head tipped to the side, all of his muscles releasing under Steve's ministrations. “How’d you get to be so good at this, Stevie?”

“I just know what feels good on me, pal.” Steve dipped his fingers along Bucky's spine, eliciting another gasping moan. “My back's all fucked up, got a spine thing.”

“No shit?” Bucky’s voice is somehow conversational despite the moans he was just making.

“Yeah. And a heart thing, and a lung thing, and an eye thing, and an ear thing,” Steve knew his tone had turned bitter, but it was coming out anyway.

“Steve!” Bucky wrenched himself out of his grip and half-turned to look him in the eye. “Are you okay? Has, has the dancing made it worse-“

“No, Buck,” Steve let his hands thump against the sides of his thighs. “It's - I'm used to most of it by now. I know what I can and can't do. Sometimes that's a moving target, but I've got a handle on it, trust me.” He looked at Bucky and shrugged, surprised to see an unexpectedly open look on Bucky’s face.

“I believe you, Steve. But,” Bucky rose to his feet and shrugged his sweatshirt on, “you don't gotta just take it if something isn't good for you, okay?” His look was so earnest that Steve found he had to glance away.

“Yeah, okay Buck.”

• • • ♕ • • •

“This is the pas de deux, ma” Steve held his phone up, a video sent from Bucky's number pulled up full screen. Sarah leaned back with a squint. “I need to get glasses,” she muttered. “Okay, I'm ready.”

The speakers blared a tinny version of the music, but Steve and Bucky’s movements were crystal clear as they moved along the studio floor, their movements in sync and fluid.

“Steven, baby, look at you,” Sarah cooed delightedly as she watched him and Bucky run and leap, then hold a pose together.

“So, that's Bucky,” Steve said as he did a quadruple pirouette on the screen. “He's been dancing his whole life and taught me how to do most of these steps. He's like a professional, but you'll never guess ma, he's an aerospace engineer. He's brilliant. He danced all through school even though he was an engineering major. Do you remember Peter from my classes last year? Bucky’s an even better dancer than him.”

He was too captivated watching the video to see Sarah’s knowing look. She pursed her lips, hiding a smile.

They did a series of pirouettes and lifts, and then the music changed to a pulsing electronic texture and on the screen, Bucky leaped into Steve's arms, straddling his hips while Steve ran a hand through his hair and down his spine before Bucky leaned in a backbend over Steve’s hands.

“Ow, ow!” Sarah said, enthusiastically, as the two figures on the screen pressed their foreheads together, and Steve nearly dropped the phone to cover his face with his hands.

“_Ma_,” he said, pained. Sarah laughed and tapped his cheek lovingly.

• • • ♕ • • •

Saturday afternoon found Steve at the kitchen table with his drawing desk doing work, while Sam prepped an ever-growing pile of sugar snap peas, humming absently. Down the hallway Sarah was doing laundry, the rhythmic _thud, thud, thud_ of the washing machine droning through the wall.

It was quiet, punctuated by the occasional snort or chuckle as Steve or Sam glanced at their phones. A few times Steve said “Hey Sam,” with his mouth open like a baby bird, to which Sam rolled his eyes and sent a sugar snap pea sailing across the kitchen. Only one of them hit Steve’s cheek instead.

“Listen, I was prepared to tease you, but you haven’t been fazed at all,” Sam said as he measured out rice.

Steve glanced up absently, his attention on the piece he was polishing. “Mm?” he grunted.

“Dinner tonight. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I thought you’d be more…weird.”

“About what? Dinner?”

“Well, yeah. Nat invited your guys’ ballet friends over. I thought you knew this.” Sam flicked the rice cooker on and pulled the rest of the stir fry ingredients out of the fridge.

Steve’s stylus clattered to the table. Sam had his back turned, hunting for a spice in the cabinet, so Steve settled for shooting a look of alarm at the back of his head. “Do you…know who’s coming?"

Sam glanced at his phone, scrolling through his texts. “Nat said Wanda, Mora, and Bucky for sure. Five p.m.”

Steve stared at the wall for a solid minute before scrambling to put away his work, dumping it unceremoniously in the corner.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked nervously as Steve reached around to dampen a towel and start scrubbing the table, flinging books and pieces of mail and coasters out of his way as he went.

“Cleaning, Sam!”

“There it is,” Sam muttered under his breath, and went back to the stir fry.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovelies, thank you for your patience. I'm now on a brief winter break and I am resurrected! Enjoy <333

Sam watched Steve tear the kitchen apart with well-intentioned fervor for a full hour before kicking him out. “How am I supposed to cook if your ass is in my way every time I turn around?” Steve surrendered, only to accost the living room.

A while later Sarah came in and leaned against the wall and watched Steve scrub at an obscure stain on the windowsill with her eyebrow raised, mouth twitching in barely concealed amusement. Steve was so engrossed in the task that he missed her observation entirely before Sarah shook her head and continued on into the kitchen.

“Boy crazy,” Sarah mouthed to Sam, pointing over her shoulder. Sam watched Steve rearrange the pillows on the couch and snickered.

“Shit! I'm not dressed.” There was a clatter and thud of feet as Steve ran up the stairs two at a time.

Half an hour later Steve stared at himself in the mirror, morale sinking into his feet. Somehow nothing he put on felt right. He liked how the baby blue button shirt flattered his eyes, but it was too formal. The band tee, while as tight as he preferred his shirts, was too casual, and if he was honest it reminded him of being a college undergrad. It was chilly enough for a sweater, but Sam said it made him look “cuddly” and that just didn’t seem right either.

He finally settled on a dark green flannel – sleeves rolled up – over a fitted white t-shirt, and dark wash jeans. He scraped a little pomade out of the basically-empty container and lifted the bangs off of his face. One more cursory glance in the mirror and he hustled back downstairs. That was way too long to decide on an _outfit_.

A sounded knock on the door just as Steve’s feet hit the floor. The fragrant smell of dinner wafted through the immaculate downstairs, and Steve gulped, his nerves rocketing up for no reason. He trotted to the door, raking his fingers through his hair one more time before he unlocked and opened the door.

“Aww, Rogers, you look cute.” Natasha smirked at him and snapped her bubble gum before walking in. Steve stepped aside to let her through and reluctantly closed the door.

“Don’t give me that sad puppy dog look. The rest are on their way.” Nat tossed over her shoulder, and made a beeline for the kitchen barstools to catch up with Sam.

A little later, Natasha happened to be walking past the door when the doorbell rang, and Steve’s brain functions disappeared in a rush of adrenalin as he leapt to his feet.

“Hey!” Sam hollered happily as Natasha reached for the door.

Steve tried not to run right to the door as several other voices spilled the through the doorway. Natasha gestured them in, and _oh, wow_, Steve took Bucky in as he shrugged off his leather jacket and looked around. Under that jacket, which Steve was going to devote more thought to later, Bucky was wearing a black fitted t-shirt and dark jeans that clung to his legs. His hair was curling around his face, and he had the barest shadow around his jaw that Steve couldn’t pull his gaze away from.

“Steve!” Bucky was walking towards him with an open smile and a one-armed hug. “Thanks for having us over. Something smells delicious.”

“Hi Buck,” Steve squeezed his arm around his back and guiltily breathed in for a moment – oh god, Bucky was wearing cologne and Steve’s legs were going to give out. “Dinner was all Sam – Sam, come over here.”

Sam came over and shook Bucky's hand, then Natasha introduced him to Wanda and Mora, then Sarah emerged, and they went through all the introductions again. The conversation was energetic and lively, and it carried that way as they plated up and crammed in around the kitchen table.

“Help yourselves to any of the beer and cider in the fridge,” Sam said, and pretty soon there was a chorus of clinking glass and bottle caps being pried off with a hiss.

Dinner was a whirlwind affair, multiple conversations flying at once and serving bowls of stir fry and rice being passed back and forth as fast as a table full of athletes could consume each serving. Steve sat himself with his good ear towards Bucky since he could read everyone else but Wanda and Mora’s lips well enough to follow through all of the crosstalk. Sam and Wanda were chatting at one corner of the table, Nat and Mora were whispering in a way that made Steve worry about the fate of humanity. On the other hand, he was delighted to watch Bucky and Sarah joking and laughing together. Bucky's smile was charming and open, and it was clearly having its effect on Sarah.

“So, tell me,” Bucky leaned conspiratorially towards Sarah, “has Steve always been a hothead?”

Sarah threw back her head and laughed as Steve sputtered. He shot a teasing, exasperated look, to which Bucky simply grinned impishly back and tipped his beer bottle to his lips.

“He came home scraped up most days out of the week, even through high school,” Sarah chuckled, “our apartment always smelled like disinfectant and bruise cream. It was mostly because he would see someone getting bullied and had to step in.” She caught Steve’s eyeroll and chuckled again, “He’s basically the human version of an overzealous sheep dog…”

Steve pushed the last few grains of rice around his plate, pretending he couldn’t hear his ma and Bucky talking. Their conversation drifted into Bucky’s work and family, and he finally looked up when something Bucky said made Sarah laugh, hard and unexpected. She had one hand on her chest, face scrunched up, and Bucky was facing her, the corners of his eyes crinkled and a big grin on his face, his shoulders gently rolling with laughter too.

“Sam, that stir fry really was delicious,” Bucky said as they carried their plates to the sink when dinner was over. The others were slowly moving into the living room, voices loud and laughing. “Thank you.”

“It’s a favorite in this house cause no one’s allergic to anything in it,” Sam said from the armchair in the living room, having earned his right to kick back and let the others clean up. “I guess by that I really mean Steve can eat it without getting a stomachache or breaking out into hives. No dairy, no nuts, no gluten.”

“Jesus, Stevie,” Bucky muttered, scooping up the empty serving bowls.

“I can eat all of that stuff,” Steve protested, “it just makes my stomach mad.”

“Hate to break it to you, but eating’s not supposed to give you a stomachache.” Bucky replied.

Sarah's phone chirped, and she peered at it with a sigh. “Oh, that's the hospital.” She looked up and met Steve's inquiring gaze. “They're calling me in tonight. I probably won't be back until morning.”

“You're leaving?” Bucky looked over, genuine disappointment on his face.

Sarah stepped over to him, arms outstretched. “It was lovely to meet you, honey.” Bucky wrapped his arms around her and squeezed tight.

Steve ducked into the kitchen to scoop some leftovers into a container. Sarah emerged from her room a few minutes later in scrubs and her bag on her arm. Steve gave her the food and kissed her cheek.

When he returned to the living room, Natasha was stacking game boxes on the coffee table. “Game time! What shall it be?”

Mora picked up the Twister box with a smirk. “Bet we won’t make it five minutes before we all fall over.”

“Aren’t ballerinas supposed to be, you know, coordinated?” Sam tossed out.

“Please,” Bucky said, his voice low and amused, “when they’re not in the studio there is no one lazier or clumsier than ballerinas.”

Wanda gestured his direction, bottle in hand. “Jamie’s right. But screw it, let’s do it. It’ll be terrible.”

“What’s the winner get?” Steve asked.

Natasha popped the lid off the box and unfurled the crackly vinyl. “Respect, maybe. Come on Rogers.”

Five minutes and a flurry of buzzed giggles later found Steve practically doing the splits over the mat, Mora doing what looked like advanced yoga, and Bucky balancing on one hand and foot, trying to monopolize one corner. Wanda and Sam sat on the couch, having collapsed and gotten out in the first few minutes.

“Left foot, blue,” Natasha called in her drill sergeant voice, used for two things: board games, and yelling at Steve when he got too heated at protests.

“Shit!” Bucky shrieked, swinging his leg over the mat. His thigh brushed up against Steve's as he struggled to plant his foot on a circle.

Mora surveyed her options, eyes narrowed. “This was a terrible decision.” She said, and scuttled her foot across the mat. She was just as competitive as Steve, and her mouth was set in a determined line.

Steve, for his part, was doing his best to keep his head up and not pass out. So far he’d managed most moves without getting stuck in a bad position that would make his heart freak out.

“You know if you actually twist around it won’t be so difficult,” Bucky had said at the start of the game as he watched Steve rearrange his limbs into an awkward but mostly upright position.

“Heart problem, remember?” Steve had squeezed out between short breaths.

Bucky had grimaced, self-deprecating. “That one’s on me.”

Now, as Natasha called “Right hand, red!” it looked like Steve was going to have to compromise. There was no way to get there without looking like a starfish attempting to plank. There was also no way without –

Steve reached his hand over to the closest red circle and found himself draped over Bucky, faces inches apart. Bucky was splayed in a bridge-like pose, facing up, and the warmth of his chest pressed up into Steve.

For as much physical contact as they had day after day in the studio, there’d never been so close. “Sorry,” Steve grunted, and tried not to huff his panting breaths straight into Bucky’s face, and kept his eyes moving around the room to avoid eye contact. No need to make it more awkward.

“Hey,” came Bucky's voice, quietly. Steve forced himself to look down. Bucky was smiling at him, his head tipped back and hair tumbling down away from his face.

“Hey,” Steve murmured back. He lowered his eyes to Bucky's, pupils expanded in the dim light, face flushed from the alcohol. _God, he’s beautiful_.

The shared look lasted a moment too long to be safe. Steve felt something bloom in his chest, and he couldn't stop his eyes from flicking down to Bucky's lips. He glanced back up and – was Bucky looking at his mouth too?

“Steve! Right foot yellow!” Natasha's voice broke into the stillness that had engulfed them.

“Oh, shit,” Steve mumbled, shifting his body. Bucky chuckled, low in his chest, and Steve breathed out a shaky laugh.

After Twister came to an abrupt end – Mora won – they settled into the couch cushions for Cards Against Humanity and played until a riot broke out because Natasha somehow had twenty-four black cards. Bucky was sitting on the shorter couch, and Steve tucked himself into opposite corner, hugging the arm self-consciously. Somehow over the course of the game Bucky’s tucked-in feet scooted closer to his, and when Bucky’s toes brushed his thighs, Steve didn’t move away and hoped the two beers he put away would be explanation enough for the flush of his cheeks.

By the time they were seeing everyone out the door Steve had a warm thrumming under his skin, seeping down into his bones. The front door closed to a chorus of “See you Monday” and “Goodnight.” Steve turned back to the living room, glanced around at the boxes of games and empty beer cans.

“That was fun.”

“Mmhm,” Sam grunted in return.

“This can wait until tomorrow.”

Sam stifled a yawn. “Mhm.”

They padded up the stairs, switching lights off as they went before murmuring goodnight and splitting off at the top of the hall.

• • • ♕ • • •

Steve glanced at the clock on the far wall, down past a bank of laptops and open-floor workspaces. Time was crawling today, and he’d been staring at the same illustrations for the past five hours. Only three more until he packed his bag and drove across town to the studio.

As if on cue, his phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with Bucky’s name.

** _getting those biceps ready rogers?_ **

That cracked a grin on Steve’s face. The plan tonight was to work on their lifts, get them all down exactly right. Time with Bucky was…warm. Fun. Even without his ever-growing crush looming in the background, being around Bucky was one of the best parts of his life. They were friends – they chatted on the days they weren’t at the studio. Sometimes Bucky sent him a photo of his work, a bunch of technical gibberish that never ceased to impress Steve. Sometimes Steve brought a strawberry smoothie to rehearsal just to see Bucky perk up.

His mind wandered off from whatever corporate designs were glowing on his monitor, into a hazy space where there was much more sweat and polyester and thick locks of dark hair. A solid minute later he realized he hadn’t even replied.

He swiped his phone opened and sent a gif of a bodybuilder doing an exaggerated, comical workout with a chuckle to himself as he locked his phone and set it on the desk again, screen-down.

To his surprise, it started vibrating again, the insistent, sharper vibrate that meant he was receiving a phone call. Why was Bucky calling him?

He scooped his phone up and flipped it over, surprised to see Sam’s contact name instead. Why was _Sam_ calling him?

He tapped the phone icon and toed off toward the bathrooms. “Sam?”

“Hey, it’s Sarah.” Sam’s voice came through, steady but tense.

“What do you mean? What happened?” Steve said, at the same time Sam started to speak. Steve clamped his jaw shut. “I’m listening.”

“Listen until I’m done. Sarah got home from her shift about an hour ago and collapsed just about the second she walked in the door. She regained consciousness almost right away but she was really out of it. I drove her to the ER and they just admitted her. I’m waiting to hear back after they take her initial vitals and everything. I’m sorry, I would have called you sooner, but there wasn’t any time. I called the second they took her back.”

Steve leaned against the wall, the room suddenly spinning. His stomach clenched, too strong and uncomfortable, like he was going to be sick.

“I’m coming.”


	8. Chapter 8

“So you’re saying it was a negative reaction to her medication.” Steve said, pinning the doctor with a hard, unflinching stare.

“That’s the simplified answer, yes. There’s more to it. With her preexisting conditions there was always the possibility of these types of symptoms. The medication she was on simply tipped it over the edge, not to mention that her system was overworked with the long hours and lack of sleep. There were a lot of factors at play.” The doctor straightened and flipped through the sheets on his clipboard. “The important part is that we have her stabilized and I expect she’ll be discharged in 24 to 48 hours. Ms. Rogers is going to need a lot of rest. We’ll talk more about her care at home before discharge.” The doctor glanced between Steve and Sam over thick black glasses. “Do you have any questions for me?”

Steve shook his head, his jaw clenched. “No, not right now.”

The doctor nodded and stepped away.

“Thank you,” Sam called quietly after him. He took Steve by the elbow, gently. “Hey. Let’s grab you some food and check with the nurse if we can go in yet.”

Steve let out a whoosh of air and looked down at his feet, nodding. He let Sam tug him gently towards the sandwich bar, faintly hearing the low timbre of Sam’s voice as he ordered.

He didn’t resurface until he was suddenly in a chair, a chicken wrap in his hands, and the strong weight of Sam’s hand on his shoulder.

“Take a bite,” Sam said, firm but encouraging. Steve obliged, grimacing at the taste like ash in his mouth.

“I don’t want to,” he said in a small voice. Sam didn’t dignify it with a reply, and instead just squeezed his shoulder again.

Sam made him eat half of the food, and even though it settled like a rock in Steve’s stomach, he could feel some energy returning to his limbs. A water bottle appeared in front of him, and Steve took it gratefully, gasping between gulps, his attention so focused he didn’t notice Sam get up and speak to the receptionist until he was returning with a nurse.

“We’re good to go back. Ready?” Sam nudged Steve’s elbow gently and he stood on shaky legs. He managed a nod, and then he was following Sam and the nurse through the double doors that opened to a winding hallway.

A turn or two later, the nurse ushered them into a room with quiet beeping. The first bed was empty and clean, not a wrinkle disrupting the bleached, stiff sheets. Steve strode across the room and tugged around the curtain, and didn’t even notice the nurse and Sam exchange words before the nurse took her leave and closed the door behind her with a decisive _click_.

Sarah was pale, eyes closed, and head titled away towards the window, her light blonde hair fanned out at unkempt angles in the pillow. Steve toed carefully around the curtain, unsure whether to wake her or sit and wait while she slept.

But Sarah’s always been a light sleeper, and as Steve slowly drew the curtain her eyes cracked open.

“Hey baby,” she whispered, and Steve spun around, his face crumpling a little bit.

“Ma.” He was at her side in the space of a breath. He touched his fingers lightly to hers, mindful of the needles and monitors attached to her arms. “How you doing?”

Sarah allowed herself a wry smile, grimacing at herself. “Haven’t been here for a while.” She turned her hand and Steve slid his palm against hers, gripping her fingers as tight as he dared.

“I know,” he murmured, and brushed her sweat-damp hair off her forehead.

His back stiff from the hospital room chair, Steve stared at the clock for a long moment before sitting up with a gasp and reaching for his phone. Fucking rehearsal. He needed to let them know he wouldn’t be there. He tapped out a quick message to Natasha, then a similar one to Bucky, then scrolled through his contacts until he found Carol’s number. The dialing tone started, and he eased himself outside of the room to talk. It went to voicemail, so Steve left a scattered message and reminded himself that between Bucky and Nat, someone would let her know.

It was past eight o’clock when he stepped into the hall again to take a call from Sam. “Hey,” he said, voice rough from disuse over the last several hours.

“How you holding up?” Sam’s voice came through, tinny but no less reassuring. God. Where would he be without Sam.

“Fine. Ma’s been sleeping for the most part. The doctor came in and we talked a little bit ago. She needs rest and fluids, for the most part. They’re running some tests, too. But with the MS,” Steve shrugged, even though Sam couldn’t see it. “You know.” Steve caught his jaw clenching, and he forced himself, tendon by tendon to release. He had no control over Sarah’s condition, but it didn’t make him happy about it, or the way that her body just got _mad_ sometimes, and there was nothing to do but rest and recover and deal with it.

Sam did know, and he murmured an acknowledgement. “When’s the last time you ate?”

“I, uh. I ate that wrap.” Steve shuffled his feet as Sam huffed.

“You going to stay the night or come home?” he asked, and Steve glanced at the wall, scanning for a clock.

“Don’t know yet. I think I’ll stay here? I’ll let you know in, like, an hour?”

“Okay. Love you.”

“Love you too.” Steve hung up and glanced at his screen. There was a notification from Natasha asking for an update on Sarah, and a supportive message from Carol.

The lights started to click off along the hallways, the distant footsteps and activity along the passageways slowing down to nearly nothing. A family walked towards the exit doors, arms around each other’s shoulders.

He stepped quietly back into the room and eased back into the chair, his back stiffening instantly at the contact. He hissed out a long breath, shifting his shoulders in vain.

“You can go home, honey,” Sarah’s voice, rough from sleep, startled him back upright. Stubborn blue eyes met stubborn blue eyes.

“Not a chance. How are you feeling?”

Steve watched Sarah’s face quirk as she mentally assessed, sitting up in slow, aching increments.

“I could use some water.”

A nurse found him at the water cooler, her brusque “Steve Rogers?” breaking the stillness. And when he nodded, “There’s someone here for you.” He followed her with a puzzled frown back down the identical, sterile hallways to the front desk, paper cup of water still in hand.

The waiting room lights were dim, but Steve recognized the long, tousled figure in the _Manhattan Aeronautics_ sweater instantly. “Bucky?”

Bucky looked up from his phone, his features eased into a smile tinged with worry. “Steve.”

He opened his arms and Steve tucked right into them, the heat of Bucky’s chest warming right through to him. He exhaled as Bucky’s arms squeezed around him, warm and reassuring. “What are you doing here?”

Bucky let Steve pull away from the embrace, his fingers lingering against Steve’s arm. “Everybody missed you tonight, and they all said they’re thinking of you and your mom. Just wanted to check on you. Sorry, I should have asked, fuck –“

“Buck, no.” Steve tipped his head down the fraction it took to look Bucky directly in the eyes. “It’s- it’s nice to see you.”

That seemed to ease the worry lines in Bucky’s forehead some, and he let out a considering sigh. “How’s your mom?”

“Just woke up again and asked for some water. She’s holding steady. We’ll be going home soon, I think.”

“Well I’m glad to hear that,” Bucky was crinkling his eyes at him, and it didn’t matter how cold the ER was, Steve felt warm somewhere in his core.

“I figured you’ve been here since you texted me and Nat, so I uh, brought you something.” Bucky picked up a bag that Steve didn’t even realize was at his feet. It was warm and smelled like heaven and squeaked like styrofoam.

“Buck, what is that?”

“I thought you could use some non-hospital food. And don’t worry, nothing will upset your stomach. I made extra sure.” Then Bucky pulled an almost comical grimace. “It’s just now occurring to me that this is probably weird and creepy.”

Steve gave up on words and wrapped his arms around Bucky’s shoulders, returning the hug Bucky gave him earlier. “Even if it is, it means a lot. Thanks Buck.”

Bucky smiled at him, comforting in the sparse glow of the office lights. “You let me know, okay? Anything you or your mom need. And the whole company says to get better soon.”

“Oh my God, I didn't even think to ask, do you want to come back and say hi? She'd be happy to see you.”

Bucky’s eyes went wide with alarm. “No, I don’t want to intrude. Steve.” He protested as Steve wrapped one hand around his upper arm.

“You know how pissed she’d be at me if I didn’t bring you back?”

Steve felt vindicated when Sarah visibly brightened as he and Bucky stepped into the room. “Bucky, sweetheart, what have you done?” Her voice was flat with exhaustion, but the corner of her mouth quirked up just so, and Steve knew she was happy to see him.

Bucky set the bag of food on the bed and shuffled awkwardly. “Just bringing well wishes from everyone at the studio. And a little something to keep you going.” He tipped his head towards the takeout with a shy half-smile.

“Thank you for coming. And for taking care of Steve.”

Bucky ducked his head but smiled back at Sarah in a way that made Steve’s heart clench.

“Get well soon, Sarah. Good night.” Steve followed Bucky as he shuffled out the door. He gave him another hug in the lobby, and if he held on a little too long, well, Bucky didn’t let go either.

• • • ♕ • • •

“Enough of this, already. Let’s go home.” Sarah said with a grumble to the sunlight streaming in through the windows and sounding about 68% restored Sarah Rogers. Steve patted her leg over the stiff ER sheets.

“The doctor’s coming around again soon. Hang tight. Want breakfast?”

“Please.”

Steve checked his phone and caught up on text messages while standing in line for oatmeal and toast. There was one from Nat, a handful from Sam, and a couple from Bucky. He tapped out an update to Nat and Sam in a group text, then opened Bucky’s message.

** _How are you doing? I know you have Sam and Natasha, but if there’s anything I can do, I’m here._ **

That tightness around his heart again. Steve felt himself burst with feelings he couldn’t quite name, but it was his turn to step up to the counter, so he hit send on a garbled mess of appreciation and gratitude and ordered Sarah’s oatmeal.

Sarah got discharged before noon, with a doctor’s note for bedrest for the rest of the week. Sarah was weak and shaky when she tried to rise, so Steve half-carried her down the hall and across the parking lot to the car and wrapped an arm around her waist as she inched through the doorway, her steps punctuated by tremors.

Once he shepherded Sarah to her bedroom and she was situated comfortable enough to Steve’s liking, he sent another text to Bucky: **_will carol kill me if i miss one more rehearsal? _**

An hour later he got a reply, **_You’re a dumbass _**

Followed quickly by: **_Jesus I’m being so insensitive. I mean no Carol will be fine and you will live _**

** _Take care of your mom_ **

** _Sorry wow im doing great here aren’t i_ **

A chuckle bubbled out of Steve, and he sent what he hoped were reassuring emojis followed by a **_thanks, buck. honest_**

That evening, his phone pinged several times in succession, and Steve unlocked his phone to four videos from Bucky of rehearsal and counting.

** _Rehearsal went fine. We missed you. Hope you can come back soon. _ **

• • • ♕ • • •

When Sam came home he went straight to Steve and held him in a bone-crushing grip until Steve’s shuddering breaths turned steady, then sat him down on the couch and started making dinner without a word. Some time later the door clicked and Nat crossed the growing shadows on the carpet and sat down across from Steve on the couch. Her eyes flicked up and down, assessing.

“Is she awake?” she asked eventually. When Steve nodded, she slipped off the couch, poured a glass of water, and knocked on Sarah’s door. Steve listened to their low, murmured voices.

The evening was quiet. Steve sank into the couch, exhausted to his bones, an ache behind his eyes.

“I have to go back to work tomorrow,” he said, sitting on the end of Sarah’s bed later. “But I can come back early.”

Sarah shook her head, fatigue making the motion small. “Don’t give me the puppy eyes,” she said in response to Steve’s ceased brows. “I can manage getting to the bathroom and the kitchen and back.”

Steve inhaled a breath that sounded like a gasp, and suddenly his eyes stung. Sarah’s hand was gripped tightly in his and when he looked up at her she was blurry. He swiped at his eyes, blinking furiously. His voice was quiet. “You scared me.”

He squeezed her hand even tighter, and Sarah squeezed back.

• • • ♕ • • •

Bucky caught his vacant stare as they were transitioning from one scene to the next and leaned in. “Hey, you.”

He smelled like sweat and salt and a trace of citrus and Steve tried not to overthink how much he liked it, how it felt familiar now. How it grounded him. His mind felt like a fizzled out dead wire, but he forced himself to return Bucky’s look anyway. “Hey.”

Dress rehearsal was a week away, and most of today was checking tutus and pinning tulle to other tulle and “oh, these fake velvet trousers don’t fit, do we have another that’s the exact right shade of royal blue?” and holding safety pins for the girls. Necessary, but Steve ached for the ache in his limbs and the music and Bucky’s body twirling around his to block everything else out, and it was a relief when the costumes got hung back up and Carol clapped at them to find their places. Still, every turned-out step felt like an accomplishment in and of itself, and Steve found himself elbowed more than once when he missed a direction.

Gentle fingertips brushed along his back. “Hang in there, honey.”

_Zap. _There’s no way… “What did you say?” Steve stammered.

“I said hang in there, buddy.” Bucky squeezed his shoulder, teeth flashing an encouraging grin.

“Oh.” So that’s what his tired and zoned out mind did, huh?

Still, his hands were around Bucky’s waist as he spun and twirled and stray strands of Bucky’s hair flew into Steve’s mouth and they breathed as one person, and he was grateful.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! The chapter count changed while I was writing this past week, so now we are 4 chapters away from being done! Thanks all for bearing with the sporadic updates :)

It was the fucking flowers that did him in, in the end.

Napping, for Steve, was when his body came collecting for the strength and energy he’d used, and said it was time to pay. He knew they were coming when his limbs felt heavy and chest felt like it was filled with lead. His eyelids sagged and every cell in his body curled in on itself, begging him to find the nearest flat surface.

There was only enough energy in him on Saturday morning to make and eat a small breakfast before his feet led him of their own accord up the stairs and into a faceplant on top his sheets, mind blissfully vacant in deep sleep.

He slept so deep that, three hours later, there were blanket marks carved into his cheek and a faint trail of drool in the corner of his mouth. Steve stretched out with a groan, long muscles straining, and got to his feet slowly, feeling somewhat restored but head still groggy.

He saw them when he staggered back down the stairs, basketball shorts and tank top as rumpled as his hair, as he made a beeline for the kitchen. There on the coffee table, bright and welcoming, was a bouquet of flowers, sprightly in a vase of fresh water.

Steve blinked slowly, eventually realizing it wasn’t just him and the flowers in the living room. There were voices he didn’t register until they had stopped.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

Bucky’s laugh, low and warm, accompanied Sarah’s greeting. Steve continued to blink, directing his gaze to Sarah, laying on the couch under a fleece blanket, and Bucky, looking soft and huggable in faded jeans and navy hoodie perched in the adjacent armchair, a book opened in his lap.

“Uh,” Steve said.

“Look what Bucky was so sweet to bring,” Sarah tipped her head at the flowers. Bucky ducked his head, a hand scratching at the nape of his neck in an automatic gesture.

“You?” Steve got out. Bucky just laughed.

“Shoo, you, and let Bucky finish this chapter.” Sarah gestured him away with a good natured wave and Bucky smoothed out the page.

Steve wandered into the kitchen, somehow pouring himself a glass of water and gulping it down noisily. As he poured himself another, he caught Bucky’s voice, warm but faint: _“__“I can't, dear, because you aren't invited," began Meg, but Jo broke in impatiently—”_

Steve stared over his water glass in stupefied awe at Bucky, sitting in the armchair in his living room, reading his ma's favorite book to her while she curled on the couch under a fleece blanket – the fleece blanket he made in fourth grade. Bucky’s voice lilting and warm like sitting in front of the fireplace, Sarah's face eased of all but the faintest tension.

The purity of the moment stilled him, glass clutched in his hand, and he took it in from across the kitchen, feeling as if he was looking on the view you see on the road that carries you home. Bucky’s hair was growing out, and he kept reaching up to tuck a disobedient lock behind his ear. Steve’s eyes circled between the concentrated look in his eyes and the sweet, sweet flowers sitting brightly on the table.

_Cut it the fuck out, Rogers, _he berated himself. This was the dangerous stuff. Now he’ll always know what it looks like for Bucky to fit right in with the misshapen fleece blankets and the peach painted walls and the chipped coffee table and Sarah’s falling-apart-copy of _Little Women_ as if it all belonged to him, too.

“What was that, Steve?” the gentle shout shook him out of his reverie. Steve nearly dropped his glass.

“I didn't say anything.” Great timing for the traitor heat creeping steadily up his neck towards his face.

Eventually he allowed himself to be lured into the room, propped up on the loveseat. And if Bucky noticed how intently Steve's eyes lingered across his face, his pink mouth – well, reading lips helped him follow along.

The clock said an hour had passed. Sarah retired to her room, and Bucky and Steve were left sitting across from each other in the stillness of the living room, for some reason neither moving.

It wasn’t uncomfortable, not exactly, but Steve wished he knew what to say. Bucky looked lost in thought, one hand twirled around the stray hairs at his shoulder. Steve murmured something about his hair growing out and Bucky mumbled something non-committal in return.

“It’s nice to have you over,” Steve said, softly. Bucky looked up, his gaze lingering on Steve’s face.

“It’s nice to be here,” he said, and Steve wanted to melt at the sweetness in his voice.

Eventually, Bucky puffed his cheeks and exhaled, setting _Little Women_ on the coffee table, his now-empty hands left to fidget on his knees. He glanced up at the ceiling and down the opposite wall, eyes darting back to Steve in between.

Steve, for his part, was still sleep-muddled and caught between the urge to curl into Bucky’s chest and ask him to never leave and initiating a goodbye to keep himself from doing just that.

“Ste-“

“Well thanks- what?”

There was the lightest surge of pink in Bucky’s cheeks. “Nothing,” he said, after a straining pause. “I better –“ he stood and shrugged his jacket on, “I better get going. I’m glad Sarah’s been resting.” His eyes raked up and down Steve, once. “I hope you’ve been getting some rest too.”

Steve flushed, feeling the telltale warm thrum in his chest. “Thanks.” He didn’t trust himself to say more.

And yet, his feet followed when Bucky offered a small smile and headed quietly to the door. Bucky put his hand on the handle and Steve knew he was standing too close, there was something dangerous about their proximity, but he was helpless to the pull of being as close to Bucky as possible. When did that happen? When did he fall into this man’s orbit?

Then Bucky turned back around, so close their noses nearly brushed. Steve could see the flecks of color in his irises, the faint freckles on the slope of his cheekbone. Steve swallowed, heart fluttering, his breath held in his throat.

Then Bucky was looking up at him through his dark lashes, pinning him with a look that Steve couldn’t quite place.

“Steve,” he said, fast and strained, but he stopped there. Steve wasn’t even breathing, willing himself to keep his eyes on Bucky’s instead of drifting down to his mouth.

Several thoughts visibly crossed Bucky’s face, then he smiled, warm, but tinged with something more complicated, and he patted Steve’s shoulder.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” he said at last, and Steve realized he was feeling disappointment.

“Okay. See you at rehearsal, Buck.”

The door shut behind Bucky and Steve immediately slumped his back against it, hands shoved up into his hair.

“Fuck!” he barked. Down the hall he heard someone call back his name in a reprimanding tone.

• • • ♕ • • •

They didn’t bring up whatever happened that Saturday morning, though they saw each other nearly every day in the following week. Rehearsals ran later and later, and Steve was even gifted to the view of Bucky crashed on their couch on two different occasions.

Rehearsals were – well, Steve was in awe. All of their choreography was learned, every beat blocked, every prop and costume accounted for. When the music started, his feet moved of their own accord, his senses tuned to the bodies moving around his, watching for his marks, and smoothing his features out from what Carol had dubbed his “battle face” into something a little more pleasant and rapt.

He couldn’t help his heart kick up when he leaned over Bucky, serenely sleeping on the musty-smelling prop bed, pressed his hand to the side of his face and leaned down, kissing his own thumb. It may be a stage kiss, but it was just close enough to actually kissing Bucky that Steve always felt a little lightheaded after that moment. It didn’t help that Bucky’s blue eyes always opened with awe and adoration. Sure, it was in character, but it was still directed at _him_, even if at prince-character him.

The first time they ran the entire show in costume, Steve mourned the loss of feeling Bucky’s skin under his hands. T-shirts and tank tops were traded out for faux velvet and spandex, and Bucky rolled his eyes and laughed when Steve griped about how much sweatier he was after each number.

Steve felt his first real rush of nerves when they walked into the performance space the following week. It was Thursday – the entire company had made sure at the start of production to get these four days off of work. Today was tech rehearsal, tomorrow was dress, and then they performed on Saturday and Sunday. It felt real walking through the carpeted lobby and into the auditorium and seeing the black floor of the stage, bare for all but some work lights. He’d gone to the community college in Brooklyn but somehow had never made it to the performing arts building in all that time. It was chilly to his bare shoulders – maybe he should have worn more than a tank top, but he was going to be warm enough soon.

The house lights were partly up and the tech team was testing the stage lights when the company came out on stage to do warm ups, and Steve felt oddly exposed as he did grand battements at the portable bar behind Bucky. Bright, colorful lights swept across the stage, and Steve swallowed down butterflies. Dancing in the security of the studio was one thing. Each of those seats out there was a gonna be full, huh? Shit.

“Exaggerate your arm movements, Rogers!” Carol’s voice cut through on the overhead. She was sitting in the middle of the auditorium, microphone in hand as they ran through the ensemble numbers. When they reached a stopping point, she had him go through his motions again. “Stretch your arms – you know what, Jamie, help him please.”

Bucky stepped into Steve’s space, taking both of Steve’s wrists in his hands. “Like this,” he said, tugging Steve’s arms farther out. Steve nodded, and Bucky released his gentle hold after a moment. Steve couldn’t help but notice that Bucky’s fingers trailed down his arms for a moment before he stepped away.

It didn’t mean anything. That was just how they were.

They were thoroughly sweaty and starting to flag by the time they broke for lunch. Steve sat in a corner of the dressing room, nibbling a sandwich, his sketchpad open on his lap. He probably wasn’t going to draw anything, but it felt comforting anyways to have it right there. The first four hours of rehearsal were partly dancing, and mostly standing around as the tech crew adjusted spotlights and colors and backdrops. It may not have been more _actual_ work than dancing full-out, but it was more draining by far.

Bucky came back into the dressing room, and Steve’s heart twisted. His hair was floppy over his forehead, and it was long enough in the back that he had it in a tiny ponytail. His head was tipped back, throat working over a gulp from his water bottle, and he looked positively snuggly in a slightly oversized hoodie.

Bucky smacked his lips and gave Steve a teasing grin. “I’m fucking tired already,” he said, then mock-fell to the ground. Steve laughed at him, bemused when Bucky inched over to put his head in Steve’s lap.

“Naptime,” he announced. “Until Carol comes hunting for us.”

Steve chuckled, one hand holding his sandwich and the other trailing absently over Bucky’s shoulder. He felt Bucky’s nose brush against his thigh and tried not to absolutely lose it.

“What were you drawing?” Bucky asked, voice muffled against Steve’s leg. He suppressed the shiver that ran up his body at the vibrations against his skin.

“Whatever came to mind,” he replied honestly. “I like having something to do with my hands.”

“Well,” and Bucky tilted his head up, sly and playful. And then he points to the back of his head.

Steve looks down, blinking, and then huffs a laugh.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re cute?”

Bucky snickers in return, and Steve rubs the pads of his fingers into Bucky’s skull, earning him little satisfied sounds.

Steve’s eyes popped open when someone knocked on the door. His head was tipped back against the wall and he felt stiff all over. In his lap he felt Bucky stir and flop over onto his back.

“On stage in five!” whoever it was on the other side of the wall called.

“Okay,” Bucky and Steve both hollered back in reply, and Steve wondered if it was obvious how sleep-laden and caught off guard their voices sounded.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered, his cheek still pressed against Steve’s thigh. “Gotta warm up again.”

When they came back out on stage Steve was surprised to see a toddler in pigtails running gleefully across the stage. She ran towards a woman standing next to Carol, who picked her up.

“Ready to go again? Steve, this is my wife, Maria.” The woman next to Carol smiled and waved. “And this is our baby girl, Monica.”

Steve and Maria shook hands, and Steve managed in a “Pleasure to meet you,” before Carol hustled him off and resumed talking work with Maria.

The thing about being Prince Charming that had its perks – he didn’t come in until the second act, and Steve took full advantage of that and sat out in the house while they did a tech run of the first act.

He never failed to be absolutely mesmerized when Bucky did his solo – his first appearance, during the scene of the prince’s 16th birthday, before he pricks his finger. Bucky was dressed in a sparkling turquoise jacket and gold tights, and he spun and swept all across the stage, to the acted admiration of those on stage and the very real adoration of at least one audience member.

Around the time that Bucky pricked his finger and fell dramatically into waiting arms Steve forced himself to duck backstage. In a moment the curtain would drop, the music would change, and his own brief solo set to a pulsing bass would begin. The scene where he made his way through the enchanted forest to get to the castle was loads of fun – the company was dressed in leotards decorated with what was ab artistic rendition of branches or foliage. Eventually the dancer-trees gave way to a clearing, and Prince Charming had his fight with the evil fairy. It was a modern number with a few distinctly classical moves that appeared even more dramatic for being a contrasting style. Steve enjoyed the hell out of it. Natasha played the evil fairy, after all. She had to keep reminding him not to smile.

“Tilt your head a little more Rogers. It doesn’t look real enough out here.” Carol’s voice rang loud and a little too clear over the PA system. Then, “Nope, the other way. Down. Bring your shoulder in? It’s not working, you two.”

Steve huffed and rolled his eyes, and Bucky peeked his eyes open, laughing softly.

“You know, you could just go for it.” Bucky said, and it took several seconds for his words to sink in. Steve’s face fell in surprise.

“Wait, what?” he whispered. “K-kiss you for real?”

Bucky’s expression was oddly neutral, but he said, “Yeah, if…it might be easier. I don’t know.”

“Back it up Rogers, let’s go again,” Carol’s voice boomed over the stage, and Steve staggered backwards to his mark halfway across the floor.

He re-crosses the floor, his careful, hesitant steps barely an act at this point. Every step turned out, toes first, rolling through the foot, until he was standing right over Bucky. His eyes were closed, and Steve let his eyes drift down to his lips.

“You sure?” he whispered through his teeth. Bucky didn’t move, simply _mhm_’ed a response.

Alright, then.

Steve gently cupped his fingers around Bucky’s jaw, angling his chin up the smallest bit.

And then he leaned down and pressed his closed lips to Bucky’s.

It was – simple. Warm. Soft. Bucky’s lips felt solid pressed against his. It lasted the space of a breath and Steve knew in that moment he was hungry for more.

And then he was lifting his head and Bucky’s eyes were opening, filled with wonder and oh, right, they’re in character, this is a fairy tale, and he was taking Bucky’s hand and helping him off the bed and the sleeping castle’s occupants woke up, and the show went on.

“Great work, everyone.” Carol said, hopping on stage after they ran bows.

Carol’s assistant Maria came up to Steve and Bucky while Carol gave comments to the company. It was easy to why she and Carol worked well together. Maria was all business in a zipped-up athletic jacket and a pencil tucked in her brown hair.

“Just a heads up, Carol might want to add another kiss during the final scene. We’ll circle back to that tomorrow,” she said, glancing down at her clipboard before heading backstage.

Steve glanced at Bucky to gauge his reaction. He just bounced his eyebrows and offered a playful grin.

“Guess they liked it,” he said.

• • • ♕ • • •

No one was going to work the next day, so Natasha and Bucky came to the Rogers house for dinner and carpooling the next morning to rehearsal.

Steve was lightheaded and antsy, replaying the kiss over and over in his head. It was a nice kiss. Not as much as Steve wanted, but it _was_ a kiss. For the show. It was a real kiss for the show.

Was – was this Steve’s opening to telling Bucky how he felt? Or did Bucky really just offer it for the production? Would it be weird to tell Bucky his feelings now?

Steve’s eyes wandered over to the object of his affections on the couch opposite him. They were all sitting in mostly comfortable silence over takeout, sprawled out over the living room, eyes vaguely glazed over as the physical exertion of the day finally caught up. Bucky was curled on the couch, bringing fries up to his mouth one at a time at a sloth-like speed. He licked the salt off his fingers, and Steve tracked his soft lips as they wrapped idly around the first knuckle of his index finger.

_Fuck_, he thought to himself. Steve knew he wanted more, more of Bucky. Even if Bucky didn’t, how would he know unless he told him how he felt?

God, could he just cut to the part where his lips were on Bucky’s lips?

“I’m so exci-ted,” Sarah sing-songed, walking past them from the printer. She waved her ticket printout excitedly. “Sunday matinee!”

Steve and Natasha gave her a little whoop, and Bucky beamed.

“You’re gonna love it,” Nat said, and Sarah stuck the paper to the fridge with a giddy little squeal.

“Have a good night crazy kids,” she said, planting a kiss on the top of Natasha and then Steve’s heads respectively before going to her room.

“Damn,” Bucky said, a singular fry in his hand, “Sunday. Three more days.” He tipped his head and looked over at Steve. “Can you believe our time together is almost over, Stevie?”

_Thud_. Steve’s heart went crashing to the floor.

“God, no. Yeah. Shit,” Steve muttered, and took a long drink of water, feeling suddenly cold somewhere in the left region of his chest.

“It’s been…it’s been really nice having you do this show with us,” Bucky was still going. “Gonna miss having you around.”

Almost over. Gonna miss you. That meant – Bucky didn’t expect to see him after the ballet was over.

Bucky didn’t want to see him after the ballet was over. There was no way he would say that unless… unless he wasn’t interested.

That was – that was fine. Yeah. Totally fine.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness it has been for-fucking-ever. Thank you SO MUCH to all of you sweet patient people who have been waiting for this slow burn to finally, well, burn. I'm happy to finally have enough bandwidth to revisit these boys and continue the story!
> 
> This chapter features TWO special things: Bucky's POV for the first time ever in this story, and BEAUTIFUL art by [Nabu!](https://twitter.com/fadefilter)! (Nabu I'm so sorry you made this art for me forever ago and it's only now getting shown to the world aaaa)
> 
> This chapter is unbeta'd and unedited, but I hope you enjoy! Once again, thanks for following this story, and welcome back!

To Bucky, dancing felt like the first deep breath of fresh air you take when you first out of the city. That first step out of the car, deeply inhaling – like the hundredth step too, when the smell of the trees and grass and dirt had already filled your lungs and cleansed you from the inside out. Dancing felt like that: clean, beautiful, natural, uncomplicated. 

Today, though, Bucky was hot and sweaty, and much worse, he was irritated. 

Something was weird about Steve today. For starters he, was late to warm up – not that that was totally out of the norm, but instead of his usual apologies to Carol and sheepish looks, his expression was unreadable, and he quietly set his things on the side of the stage and joined the warm up, tucking himself quietly in the back. If that wasn’t enough, Bucky could feel whatever Steve was wound up about in his body when they pressed up close during the pas de deux. Instead of feeling their energy meld as they moved together, Bucky felt like he was constantly reining him back in. Steve hadn’t even looked him fully in the eye yet, for god’s sake. 

Depriving him, too, of those blue eyes. So fucking pre-

“Steve, shit!” Bucky didn’t realize the words has spilled from him until he was already on the ground, a sting in his palms and the side of his knee.

The music came to an abrupt halt, and Steve’s face was over his, his wide blue eyes still darting around his face, and he was being tugged to his feet.

“Bucky, oh my god, I’m so sorry, I don’t know- ”

Bucky shrugged him off and stalked back to their starting places. “I’m fine, Steve.”

They assumed their opening pose again, and Bucky tipped his head, angling to catch Steve’s eye. _Look at me, Steve._

“Whatever’s going on in that head of yours, leave it off the stage. You’re needed right here.” Bucky forced a smile, as gentle as he could muster. “I need you right here.”

And there he was, after all these hours, Steve’s bright blue eyes looking into his own. Bucky didn’t expect the tension that suddenly uncoiled in his own center.

“I’m right here, Buck. I’m sorry.”

Bucky gave him a crooked smile in return.

It wasn’t fully better, though, whatever it was. Steve’s steps lagged a little, lacking the energy that Bucky’s come to expect from his, and his expression was still…something. Vacant, maybe.

And then Steve _stepped on his toes_. His literal toes. Twice.

The final mazurka during the dress rehearsal went fine, as far as Carol and both Marias and God and everyone else was concerned, and Bucky kept a bright, fake smile plastered on his face, even though toes on both his feet were throbbing sharply and he could feel the angry flush creeping up his neck.

Dinner break came early, and Bucky stomped outside as soon as they were dismissed. Yes, he was irritated as hell, but that didn’t mean the rest of the company needed to suffer with him. They were opening in a matter of hours.

Natasha found him laying on a concrete bench in a secluded corner around the building, and and Bucky simply groaned loudly in response to her monotone “Hey.”

“He’s driving me fucking crazy, Tasha.” Bucky covered his face with his hands and sighed loudly. Maybe if he made enough upset noises the stress would escape him that way. “I know, I know he’s working hard and come a long way, but seriously.” He flexed his abdominals and swung both legs up to ninety degrees. “He stepped on both my fucking feet!”

“Mm,” Natasha said, and Bucky groaned.

“Does he know?”

Bucky craned his head around to glare at her. “I mean…there’s no way he doesn’t. He’s not an idiot.”

Natasha shrugged noncommittally at that and shoved her hands in her pockets, pacing along the wall as she continued. “You haven’t talked to him.”

Bucky swung off the bench, bouncing on his toes a few times and stretching with a dissatisfied groan. “After the show’s over. Maybe. I’m going to get dinner.”

• • • ♕ • • •

Bucky checked his phone as he trotted up the campus steps back to the auditorium. One from his sister, a couple from social media…and one from Steve.

He opened the one from Steve first.

_ **Hey, I’m sorry for being…idk what that was earlier but I’m sorry and I’ve got it under control now.** _

Another one popped up on the screen as he read.

_ **Are we…okay?** _

Bucky didn’t even bother responding. Instead, he tucked his phone back into his pocket and started jogging to their green room.

The way Steve always lights up like a sunbeam when he spots Bucky still makes his heart clench. But right now, Steve’s smile faltered, searching Bucky’s face for something.

“Hey. Bucky. Hey. I….um,” Steve finished lamely, scratching unconsciously at the back of his neck.

“Steve-”

“No, please. I’m so sorry. I got you hurt. And sure, maybe it wasn’t bad, but I still hurt you. I’m your partner, it’s my job to make sure you’re okay. I’m sorry, I let…I’ve got some shit on my mind and I let it get in the way.” Steve turns those earnest eyes to him, and Bucky wonders if he was really that pissed off earlier, or if he just made it up. It’s hard to remember looking at that face. Then Steve giggled, a genuine nervous giggle. “Um…take me back?”

Bucky felt his mouth tug into a smile against his will. This dork made it too easy to forgive him. “Yeah, Steve, we’re fine. Promise.”

How was it that Steve made him feel like he singlehandedly achieved world peace? The relieved smile that splits across his face is nearly too much to bear.

“And, um…” Steve was still talking. “Okay, this is stupid. But I wanted to give you this.”

Steve stepped forward, holding out a folded piece of paper. “It's s nothing, really.”

Bucky gave him a lingering, quizzical look before unfolding the paper and looking down at it.

It….it was him. In slightly smudged dark pencil, but that was Bucky on the page, coming out of a turn into an arabesque in the studio, hair plastered to his forehead and shirt clinging to his sides.

“Steve…” Bucky started, wonderingly. A million thoughts raced through his head and none of them coherent. He finally looked up. “You really think my thighs are this sculpted?”

Steve made a choked off sound, and then he chuckled again, bashful as anything. “I was just drawing what I saw.”

“Come ‘ere.” Bucky said, but immediately helped himself by stepping into Steve’s space and wrapping his arms around his shoulders. “Hey, we’re good. Thanks.” _I really-_ “I think we better go warm up,” he finished.

Steve gave him a grin in agreement, and then his face froze, and Bucky saw every emotion he himself ever felt ages three through thirteen when performing flash across his face in alarming succession. Bucky bumped his shoulder into his. “You nervous?”

Steve’s voice was shaky. “Yeah. A little. A lot. Dress rehearsal didn’t exactly inspire any confidence for me.”

Without thinking Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve again, pressing his chest into his own. Steve’s heart was fluttering, hard and fast. “Hey,” Bucky said, making his voice even and soothing. “It’s gonna be great. Your muscles know every step even better than your mind.”

Steve’s hands slid up Bucky’s back, squeezing back tightly, and Bucky heard him exhale, felt the tension start to seep out of his skin. “When I was a kid I would get nervous before shows started, and either I would ask my sister to do something to make me laugh, or I would sit in a corner and think through every step. Not moving or dancing or anything, just thinking through every step to remind myself that I know what I’m doing.”

Bucky pulled back, searching Steve’s face. “What do you need? Should I pull out some puns?”

Steve smiled gratefully, but shook his head. “The second one sounds like it’ll help. I think I need to just sit by myself. Thanks, b- thanks.”

“Good luck, then! I’ll see you in the wings.”

Bucky knew he needed to go stretch and warm up on some of his turns, but he couldn’t help but wait and watch Steve’s retreating figure until he turned a corner, out of sight.

• • • ♕ • • •

The final ingredient, the audience, was a flavor that changed with every performance. Bucky has learned that you never know when they’ll clap, where they will laugh, what beats will work and what will fall flat. Sometimes matinees are sleepy. Sometimes opening nights are the most restless. Sometimes, Bucky’s favorite, the energy is balanced perfectly and the crowd is enraptured, clapping at every soloist’s series of pirouettes with gusto, genuine love and appreciation.

No matter what kind of crowd it turned out to be, Bucky always felt the same building, crackling energy before a show as the murmur of the audience seeped through the walls, the sound of all of those people on the other side of the curtain changing the air, like lightning waiting to strike.

The unseen pressure of all of those bodies in the auditorium always gave Bucky a renewed vigor, a fresh fire in his muscles. He loved it, unashamedly.

He found Steve right before the overture began. Steve looked more settled than he had all day, his jaw set in a familiar determined line, brows drawn slightly together.

“Break a leg,” Bucky said between the pins in between his lips as he adjusted his bun one more time.

Steve bounced his eyebrows. “Back at you.”

The music began, and everything else dissipated as the lights beamed out across the stage in bold yellows and pinks and blues, the music drowning his sense and melding with his muscles.

He watched from the wings, water bottle tucked under his arm and teeth gently biting around his knuckles as Steve stepped out on stage after the intermission for his solo. He was a little stiff, hips moving with the music, but Bucky had seen him be more lyrical in dozens of rehearsals. Still, even with that, the combination of his fast-paced, spinning steps and his blonde hair falling into his eyes and the arresting, thudding music, Bucky could tell that he had the audience’s complete attention.

Steve loosened up as the routine went, and by the end, even though he slipped and fell out of his final quadruple pirouette, it was good.

The rest moved in a blur – Bucky pricked his finger and is carried to the prop bed; he steadied his breathing as he felt the heat of Steve’s body over his own, the lips pressed gently to his own.

The pas de deux was nothing like the morning’s harried rehearsal. Steve moved fluidly, matching Bucky step for step, his hands where Bucky needed them for every step. Bucky felt the trust they had grown over the past months return as Steve hoisted Bucky over his head, framed his waist for the pirouettes, and slotted his fingers between Bucky’s ribs as he knelt, face upturned rapturously to Bucky’s low arabesque.

  
The applause was deafening, littered with screams and whistles when Steve wrapped an arm around Bucky’s waist after their final bows, arms raised up in mirrored curves above their heads.

“One down, folks! Well done,” Carol said to everyone gathered behind the now-dropped curtain. “Notes can wait until morning. Get a good night’s sleep and we’ll see you tomorrow at ten.”

“Bucky,” Steve caught his arm as he was turning to leave. “I know we’ll be getting out late, but I’d really love it if you came over for dinner after tomorrow’s shows.”

“Can’t get enough of me, huh Steve?”

“Listen…” there was that bashful look again, but Steve just shook his head and looked him steadily in the eye. “So, will you?”

Bucky ignored the questions pressing at the back of his mind. _Keep it simple_.

“Yeah, I will Steve,” Bucky forced himself to turn and start walking back to get his stuff. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make my day!  
I am also on [the bird app](https://twitter.com/sunbardy).


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